


A Loaded Smile

by Skalidra



Series: Earth-3 Storyline [18]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Forever Evil (Comics), Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Casual Sex, Earth-3, Jealousy, M/M, Marks, Masks, Mirror Universe, Obedience, Open Relationships, Organized Crime, Stripping, Topping from the Bottom, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason and Roy have confessed to each other, and publicly everyone supports them. But Dick's just lost the one man he's always claimed as 'his' to another person's love, and is looking for whatever kind of a distraction he can find. Whether that's a fight, or a fuck, or just the chance to breathe. - Direct sequel to 'The Minutes Till my Heartbeat Stops'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said in 'The Minutes Till my Heartbeat Stops' that it was done, except for a sequel that had Dick's reaction? Well, this is it. This is _also_ my first real foray into how Dick thinks and acts. Included are also many reasons why he acts the way he does and (shock!) it's not just because he's a giant whore. Because he really isn't, and the second chapter gets into a bit of why that is.
> 
> Again, this is a direct sequel to 'The Minutes Till my Heartbeat Stops', all from Dick's PoV. I've got two chapters of this, because damnit I was _not_ having a 20K plus single chapter.
> 
>  **Warnings for this chapter are:** non-graphic violence, and some seriously unhealthy mental coping mechanisms/patterns. Enjoy!

For me, running isn't the pound of shoes against pavement or dirt, or the pump of muscles in thighs and calves, or the _shock_ of each impact with the ground. It's a feeling more than an action, and even though I could tell people that running has always been a comfort to me, they wouldn't understand what I mean.

It has nothing to do with the ground, and _nothing_ to do with how fast or far I can push myself. It's not about the speed, or the distance, or getting to or away from something. To me, running is the rush of wind through my hair and against my face. It's the rush of flying, and the clench of falling, and the knowledge that I am in complete control over which one I'm at the mercy of. It's the pull of a cable in my hand, against my shoulder, and the contract and _shove_ of pushing off a building with both legs. Each rough twist of my glove against the ledge of a building in a flip, and the roll against the gravel of a rooftop before I'm off the edge again and it all starts over.

 _That's_ running.

I knew the sky and the feeling of being completely _free_ like this a long time before I was ever picked up by Bruce, and a long time before my first rooftop run. I knew what this felt like even as a child, being tossed into the air by my parents and feeling that one moment of being at the air's mercy before being caught again. It's in my blood, it always was. I knew it when my parents introduced me to the feeling of a spotlight, of ropes under my hand and the gasps of an audience, and that has _never_ gone away.

Home is the sky, it's that _feeling_ , and wherever I happen to sleep I'll never be separated from what that feels like.

When things are wrong, when the constants around me start to shatter, this is where I retreat to. When Bruce and I fought, and when I left him behind to become Nightingale, the sky is what brought me back from the edge of that. When Jason died, and then when he _came back_ looking for answers and blood, the instinctive clench of my stomach in a freefall is what held me together. When the people I choose to share myself with scream in my face, snarl insults and demand to know how I can think of them as replaceable, it's the memory of that moment of weightlessness in the air that lets me ignore it.

When I saw the look in Jason's eyes, and knew that the man I'd always considered _mine_ loved someone else, that he was willing to trust and believe in someone that _wasn't me_ …

Here I am. Bludhaven. Twisting through my city's skies and letting the feeling keep me from the pain.

I couldn't stay in Gotham. I couldn't watch Arsenal smile and kiss Jason with that kind of tenderness, with that much _joy_. Not without slitting his throat, and then I'd lose Jason completely, wouldn't I?

Arsenal, _Roy_ , loves Jason, and my younger brother loves him back. Whatever I might have with Jason, however much he might be _mine_ — and for however much longer, now that he has the _archer_ — I know he doesn't love me the way he loves Roy. If what he feels for me can even be called 'love'. We're family, and he's been mine nearly as long as he's worn a mask, and I know he's loyal because even after he died he was _still_ mine on some level, but love? I'm not sure I could even recognize it if I saw it.

I remember the joy and the easy familiarity of being with my parents, and I know the feeling of the _vicious_ loyalty I have for Bruce, and I know I would defend any member of my family to the end of my life, if I had to, but are any of those things _love?_ Is it anything like what Roy feels when he looks at Jason, or what Jason feels when he looks at Roy? Did I ever feel anything like they do, or even anything I can think of as 'love,' for Jason, or did I just keep him close because he was the first person who didn't want me to change when we were together?

Jason never wanted anything from me but my touch and my presence, and at the start it was closer to worship on his part than it ever was any kind of desire for a relationship. I knew that, but Jason took the pain I dealt out — more than most people can handle — and asked for more; he _enjoyed_ it. I could pin him down and _hurt_ him, and he'd arch up against me — his teeth clenched and his eyes wild with adrenaline and lust — and plead for _more_ , for me to do whatever I wanted to him. Losing that the first time, when the Jokester killed him, left a hole in my life I couldn't fill. Not with other people's blood, or their touch, or even Bruce's hand on my shoulder and his promises of making the clown _suffer_.

But then Jason came back, and after Bruce and I brought him back from his hatred he was one of us again. He was my brother again, and he was _mine_. Not the way he was, I had to learn not to put him at my mercy the way I was used to doing, but he still wanted me. Maybe the man that came back to Gotham wasn't the same as the teenager that had been taken — harder, defensive, and more _dangerous_ than Jason ever was before — but he was still Jason at his core, and he was still the only person that struck that balance I wanted.

He didn't expect more than the familiarity and the sex, and didn't get angry and vicious that I wouldn't give that 'more,' but he didn't treat me like the disposable, single night fuck that some others did either. Jason wanted me for who I was, for the touch, the pleasure, and the loyalty between us, but he never seemed to feel the need to claim me in front of the rest of the world, or even _want_ me to admit that I was his in any way. I could take my teeth and nails to him, carve the proof of my ownership into his skin and make sure _everyone_ knew that he was mine, and he never asked to do the same.

Jason was mine, but he never asked me to be his. He let me claim him without ever asking more than my touch in return, and he seemed to be content with that.

I guess that's over now.

Jason has Roy, what more use does he have for me? We'll still be family, that won't ever go away, but I guess that the days of Jason being mine are done. That's alright; I'll cope. I've dealt with loss before, and it's not like Jason is dying for a second time. He'll be happy, even if it's not with me. I can learn to resist killing Arsenal; I'll just keep myself scarce and out of their way until I figure out exactly how. There are other beds I can spend my nights in, and other people I can be around, until that happens.

I won't trust any of them, and I won't give any particular favor to any of them, but they'll do well enough for keeping me occupied for a time. I can't really trust any of them, not the way I trust my family, and I know that. I don't even fully trust anyone in my family but Bruce, not even Jason. I trust them more than anyone else, but I remember what it feels like to trust someone as completely as I did my parents, and I don't trust my brothers like that.

I can believe that the other members of our team — M'gann, Koriand'r, Kon-El, to name a few — are good enough to follow my commands, and good enough to be useful to me, but that doesn't mean I trust them. _Trusting_ is being able to close your eyes, throw yourself into the air, and know that someone will be there to wrap a hand around your wrist and keep you from the ground. It's knowing that the someone you choose will always be there to pick you up and pull you away from the impact, that they'll _always_ be at the end of your swing or at your back. It's knowing that they're every bit as good at their job as you are, and even if you slip they can make up the difference.

The _only_ person that I trust that absolutely is Bruce, because I know from years and years working at his side that even if we fight he'll be there. He'll always be there. At Bruce's side I don't have to even consider worrying about if he'll make it out; I know that as long as I do my job and watch his back, nothing could ever happen. It's not the same as fighting at the side of any of my brothers; they're all excellent combatants and I know it, but I'm their older brother. I'm responsible for them. I don't have that same ingrained need to worry about Bruce, not as intensely anyway.

With Bruce I can call for him, jump, and trust that no matter what he's doing, he'll stop to catch me. I know he _can_. I trust Jason, Tim, and even Damian to make the effort, but I'm not sure they'll actually _manage_ it; not the way I know that Bruce will.

How could anyone else ever fill a role like that? Why would I let them even try?

I retract my cable, closing my eyes for just a second as I let my body arch and my head fall back, turning in a slow backwards fall through midair because I _can_. I breathe easily, flicking my eyes back open when I'm face down, and shooting the cable out again to catch in the corner of a building, letting it bear my weight at the bottom of the fall and swing me around the side of the brick and back up into the sky. Releasing its hold at just the right moment to be flung into the air with all my momentum feels natural, _is_ natural. I know everything about the clench and release of muscle, know the weight of my own body and what it's capable of, know _exactly_ what the curve of an arc feels like, and the distance between landings.

I didn't need Bruce to teach me how to fly, I just needed him to teach me how to land, and he did. The sky is still my home, midair and with the momentum of a swing behind me, but I know the ground now too. I know how to hit the floor and get back up, how to weather the sting of gravel and the drag of asphalt and keep moving. I know everything about a city's streets and her darker shadows. Gotham especially, but Bludhaven runs a close second.

Gotham is Bruce's, and Bludhaven is mine. I run things here, and I keep this section of Bruce's empire running smoothly. Someday, I'm sure Tim and Damian will have their own cities too. Jason would never tie himself down to a single place like that, and he already has his side life as a mercenary, but my other brothers would.

Maybe Jason will take up a place in Star City, now that he's with Roy.

My eyes close more sharply this time, breath catching for that same moment, and I twist and loop the cable around the rung of a fire escape. The swing pulls me down, only a few stories from the ground, and then up again, where I retract it and catch the edge of the building in the same second. I propel myself over, and let myself fall over the ledge into a roll that drains away the last of the momentum. My chest aches a bit, but I push it down and straighten up to my feet, tossing my head back.

Bludhaven might not be as intense as Gotham most times, but that doesn't mean it's safe to assume that I'm alone on this particular rooftop, or that I'm not being watched by someone. I'm an Owl; appearances are everything.

We're just human underneath the costumes, and the day someone truly grasps what that means is the day they bring us down. We can't _afford_ to look like anything except perfect, and luckily that came naturally to me. It's what my parents taught me from birth, after all.

It's _all_ about the show.

It doesn't matter what you feel, it doesn't matter if you're in pain, or exhausted. If you're in front of someone, _anyone_ , that isn't family you have to put forward the absolute best face you have. Make it look easy, effortless, and make sure no one sees the sweat or the tremble of overtaxed muscle. Deal with what you have to in private, but make sure nothing shatters the illusion of the act. The same rules that my parents taught me also happened to apply to being Talon, Nightingale, and even to being a Wayne.

It's the show, the appearance, the _act_. _Nothing_ can break the illusion that as Owls we're beyond human. Not in front of heroes, civilians, or even the people that we cautiously, or temporarily, call allies. _Especially_ not in front of them.

People look to us as one of the most powerful crime families in the world, as the humans that stand beside gods and monsters without fear, and _lead them_. The Crime Syndicate is Bruce's, the younger team is mine and Tim's, Jason is a respected member of the mercenary communities, and even Damian plays his own part among the youngest of the sidekicks. I can't be the one to bring that down; I _won't_.

So I keep the smile on my face, stand tall even when it hurts, and spread the _fear_ of our family through the world. It doesn't matter that the thought of Jason and Roy brings a hollow ache to my chest, or that the sight of them together, and of Tim and Bruce _supporting_ it, hurts like the time that Jason put a knife in my stomach. The fact that I have to pretend to be alright with this, that I can't _tear_ Roy limb from limb without losing Jason too, is the worst of it. Next to that, the fact that I have to smile to his face, that I'm going to be called on to help _train_ the archer, is just an extra blow when I'm already down.

But it _doesn't matter_.

I made my decision, and I didn't think Jason would ever love the archer back but it's too late to withdraw what I said now. I thought I could get Harper to back off, back _down_ , if I hurt him badly enough, but he didn't. Even pinned against the ground, or bleeding and choking under my hand, I could see in his eyes that he'd _never_ let me scare him away with anything but something completely drastic. He proved to me that he was loyal to Jason, that to him 'love' was more than just a word and that he _meant_ it. He was willing to die before hurting Jason, willing to let me torture him before he'd take the choice of what to do out of my brother's hands. To be able to tell Jason how he felt, and let him do whatever he wanted with that information.

Not to take him from me, or to demand that Jason love him back, or even to ask that anything change. He wasn't ever even intending to tell Jason, if I hadn't pushed him into shouting it at me and bringing it into the open. He was content and even happy to officially be nothing more than a convenience, for as long as he had to be.

" _Why do the words matter?"_ Roy had asked, and I didn't have an answer.

He… impressed me, so when Tim brought up the idea of taking Harper into our family as one of us, of claiming him as an Owl, I told Bruce that Roy was devoted to Jason, and he wouldn't betray us. I didn't think Jason would return the feelings, I didn't think Roy was a _threat_ to what I had. I never imagined Jason actually enjoying being with someone so… gentle, and his skill with weaponry aside Harper is _gentle_. He's good natured, kind, and generally trusting of anyone he knows. He's nothing like any of us Owls, and I never thought Jason would care for someone like that. Especially someone already involved with another person, and a woman at that.

Jason may be equal opportunity when it comes to genders — there was a time I considered that we both learned that from Bruce, though Tim pretty much sneered and raised an eyebrow at all things female — but I didn't think he was someone that would get seriously involved in a threeway like that. Koriand'r definitely isn't his type; she's entitled, commanding, and Jason doesn't take that from anyone anymore. That can't work, can it?

How is it that Harper can love two separate people so equally, with _everything_ he is?

I resist the urge to shake my head, or close my eyes, and start moving again instead. I've been still too long, and there's too many eyes in Bludhaven. No one can even _think_ that I'm distracted. I glance around, and take a second as I'm heading for the edge of the building to consider what's in the area around me. It's an industrial area, and there's a stash house about three blocks to the east that I could check in on. If I remember correctly there's an operation going out of there tonight, a distribution out to dealers for the next week of their trade. There should be guards, and someone overseeing it, and it might be good to remind the lower rank and file of who they work for.

When we show our faces — figuratively speaking — and remind the lower subordinates that at the top of the pyramid are the _Owls_ , there tend to be less of them that try and steal from us. Or try and sell us out to the cops. The cops are _nothing_ compared to us.

It will keep my mind off of anything but practical thoughts, too. I could use a distraction.

I swap directions and speed up, taking a few running steps to get me to the top of the ledge at the edge of the rooftop, and shooting my cable out and up, into the brick of another building as I leap off of mine. The fall feels good, and the draw back up is even better. It's only a few blocks, and normally I would just freerun the distance between, but these buildings are particularly inconsistent in size and height, and it just wouldn't work as well as using a cable. Knowing how to freerun, as well as how to swing, are both fine, but the important part is knowing when to use each of them, or in what combination.

Not having to _think_ about your next movement is the absolute goal. Moving should be natural, and the planning of a route should be subconscious, the same as it is in a fight. If you're having to stop and think about where you're going — or what your next attack is — then you've already hesitated and given the advantage away.

The building the stash is in is lit from within — not ideal for my purposes, but I do better in light than Bruce or Tim do; I was _designed_ to catch attention — and I let my cable land me on the building next door — a fifteen foot gap between their roofs — and take a look over at the edge at the security. It's not bad, but it _is_ clearly geared towards preventing police interference, and not protection against any vigilantes out there. I keep a tight hold on my city, and very few heroes dare to actually try and fight me here. Most of the attention is on Gotham and Bruce, and that definitely makes it easier to maintain order here.

Well, time to scare the rank and file.

I pull in a shallow breath and back up across the rooftop for a running start, shoving off the edge of the building and leaping, diving and tucking down to roll when I hit the top of the other building. It's not a completely soundless landing, but it's quieter than any of these lower grunts will notice. My lip curls a bit at the fact that there's no one stationed up here, even though there's a hatch and a large electrical box that could probably be used to at least temporarily disable the power. I'll make sure they fix that.

Even if my city is short on real heroes, and this isn't anything big enough to really be damaging to operations, that doesn't mean it's alright for them to slack on the basics of security. One would do, but ideally there should be two people stationed up here, to minimize the ability to neutralize them before they can sound some kind of alarm. Not necessary just to foil police — even the people on the ground would be able to hear a rooftop entry from normal police — but absolutely necessary for the rest of us vigilantes, who almost always prefer a back door. Even better if that back door is on the roof.

I shatter the loop of the rusted lock on the rooftop hatch with a sharp kick from the reinforced heel of my boot, and test the hatch itself briefly to make sure the hinges don't squeal before propping it open all the way. It leads to a ladder built in against one wall, and I descend down enough to hang off the top rung, turning my back to it and looking out into the warehouse. It's nearly full of wooden shipping boxes, stacked high and some wrapped in a protective layer of plastic. About three quarters of it is legitimate and legal things that Bruce and I happen to have a share in. He owns this building under a pseudonym, and we might use it as one stash house of many but there's no point having the empty space go unused.

As far as our subordinates are concerned, we pay a share of the profit to use the warehouse.

There's two trucks parked at the front end of the building, in front of a closed loading door, and the activity is centered over there. The backs of the trucks are open, and there are — at first count — eight people unpacking several open crates and loading the nondescript, smaller cardboard boxes into the trucks. The boxes don't look like much more than a standard package-by-mail, by design and for a first misdirection against anyone nosy.

None of the people notice me, but that's not surprising, just a little disappointing. Then again, it's been awhile since I had any real trouble in Bludhaven. What heroes I do have here tend to come after me, not the business I run. I guess they think if they take me down — like there's a prison in the world that could hold me — then the business will crumble on its own, or at least they'll be able to really take it apart without me there to stop them.

I don't think that's totally wrong, even if Tim would probably fill in for me until I got back.

I climb down the ladder, dropping the last few feet and then starting forward through the rows of crates. It's easy to track the location of the men by their noises, even if I can't directly see them any more, and the crates are stacked neatly so it's less of a maze and more of a straight path. I come into view and lean against one of the stacks of crates in the last row before the empty space and trucks, silently watching the men loading up the packages.

It only takes about ten seconds for one to notice me, gaze passing over and then doing a quick double take, reaching inside his coat for what's probably a gun with a cry of alarm. I stay still as the gun comes up, the cry getting me the attention of the other seven men as well, and before it's even fully trained on me one of the older looking men, off to one side, steps sharply in.

" _Put_ that down, you _moron_ ," he snaps, "before he knocks it out of your hand with your fingers still attached." The gun-wielding man pales, and then flushes impressively bright red, as the rest of the men vary, caught between wary and laughing at their friend. "Back to work," the older man — somewhere in his fifties, with a decent beard and dark blue eyes — commands, sending the collection of lower ranked subordinates scattering back to their job loading the two trucks.

I shift off the crate I'm leaning against as the leader approaches me. He has the sense to look wary, but he's not obviously scared, and his face is definitely familiar. He's not new to this, so he'll know there's no reason to be afraid as long as he hasn't messed anything up. We don't make examples out of good workers, and usually they get rewarded in one way or another. If it's not profitable to work for us, why would anyone bother? After all, working for us comes with an increased risk of running into vigilantes, so if we didn't make it worth it we'd be stuck with the insane or the people with criminal records too long to get work anywhere else.

Neither tend to be good at their jobs.

"Nightingale, sir." His voice has dropped, quiet enough that the rest of the men probably won't be able to hear it. Their chatter, on the other hand, isn't as careful. Most of it is inane, and a comment from one of them lets me know that the gun-wielder is new to Bludhaven. "How can I help you?"

"Just stopping by," I reassure, doing him the service of pretending I don't see the relief that flashes across his face. "You need someone on the roof. Ideally, two people."

"Of course." He snaps out a sharp command, with two names I don't recognize in it, and two of the other seven men immediately break off and head around and past us into the warehouse, to the ladder and still open hatch. "Routine stop, sir?"

I give a sharp smile, though not one of my more threatening ones. "No such thing; I was nearby. Why did you hire someone new to the city?"

He winces. "My usual is out sick, flu, but vouched for this guy. Said he knew him from back in Metropolis. Short notice, and it's a busy night. My other normals are all either here or working something else. It's all I could do on short notice, and the higher ups have always said to never have a shorthanded crew."

I tilt my head in acceptance, glancing back past him at the group. New-guy catches my eye, and I watch him take a long look — pausing in his work — along the line of my costume until the closest other one smacks his side to start him into working. He jumps, and the other man — looks younger than new-guy by a few years, scruffy blonde hair and a smooth jaw — hisses something into his ear. At least he has the sense to say it quietly enough that I don't hear it.

New-guy, on the other hand, doesn't have that much sense.

_"Can you imagine what fucking that would feel like?"_

The leader cringes, and the blonde man beside new-guy looks totally horrified. I flick my gaze, without turning my head, to watch that interaction, studying the short brown hair and stubble-lined jaw of the man, the narrow blue eyes that are somewhere close to Jason's blue-green mix of shade. He's on the shorter side, closer to Kon-El's height than mine, and he's got decent muscle in his arms but it's maybe equal to Tim's definition, with no adjustment for this man being built thicker. Decent looking enough, but not my type and not up to my standards.

Normally I don't mind comments like that. I designed my suit to catch attention, so getting it usually isn't anything but gratifying, even if it's crude. But right now, I'm not in the mood to be treated with anything but respect, not to my face.

Anyway, I needed a distraction didn't I?

The leader doesn't turn, but there's resignation in his eyes and voice as he raises one hand to scrub over his forehead. "I don't really need the extra hand," he concedes. "Loading will go slower, but I can push the rest of them harder and we shouldn't be that far behind schedule."

I incline my head a bit, returning my attention to him. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the blonde man shove new-guy back to work, hissing things under his breath and looking somewhere between terrified and furious. "You can keep him until the loading is done," I allow. "I'm in no rush. Go back to work, I'll stay and watch."

He winces again, and I get the impression he definitely doesn't want me sticking around, but I flash a slightly sharper smile at him and he thinks better of arguing. "Will I get him back?" he asks instead, still just looking resigned as opposed to really worried. "In one piece?"

I make a show of shrugging carelessly, letting my smile widen a bit. I don't feel any of it — there's a yawning pit in my chest that's starting to turn into something deadly, something cold, something _furious_ — but why would that matter? It's the appearance, it's my persona, it's what's expected. "If he behaves," is all I offer.

I'm not in a good mood, and I'm self-aware enough to know that, but so long as he doesn't say anything I find particularly offensive I can hold back. If he irritates me I'll take my mood out on him, but if he's smart enough not to then he'll get away with nothing more than a reminder not to disrespect an Owl. He can keep his fantasies if he wants to, but he should keep them behind closed doors and off of his tongue. If I let him keep that.

The leader makes a small face, and I can read the disappointment in it, before nodding. "Yes, sir."

I shift my weight as he turns and heads back to the rest of the men, joining in loading up the trucks. They've got a few more crates of boxes to go, so I take a glance around and find a lower stack of boxes — still in the front row of the stacks filling the rest of the warehouse — to jump up on. It's only a few boxes high, about the height of my shoulders, and it's an easy flip to make to get myself on top.

I sit down and lean back on one hand, drawing the opposite foot up to balance on the edge of the box and letting my arm hook on top of my knee, letting my left leg hang over the edge. I get a few worried glances, and none of them seem real comfortable with me still being here, but that's good. I _shouldn't_ make them comfortable.

If they were comfortable around me then they wouldn't be afraid, and if they're not afraid then I haven't done my job right. We usually don't interact with anyone who isn't running an operation, but the Owl name hangs over all of this, and they should know what that means. We don't tolerate failure, or disrespect, and we _really_ don't operate the same as the crime operations in Metropolis. This may not be Gotham, and I might not hold the same kind of weight to my name as Bruce does, but I am _not_ to be messed with.

It's good that this is a lesson that most people only need to learn once, and most don't need to experience it hands-on. All it usually takes is hearing about or seeing what we can do, and the kind of people who'd work for us fall right into line. Not many people are stupid enough to try betraying or disrespecting us after knowing even some of what we can do.

We call those people 'heroes.' Or 'dead.' Depends how successful they were at it.

I angle my head to be turned towards the general direction of the workers, only moving my eyes to track them individually, so as not to betray exactly who I'm looking at. I don't know if what the other one said to new-guy actually changed his mind, or if he's just decided to stop talking about it out loud, but though he's obviously the least phased by my presence he doesn't speak again. Doesn't mean that I don't catch his eyes trained up at me a few times.

The rest of them seem fine. Nothing extraordinarily good looking, or bad, good muscle on most, and they move like they know what they're doing. That would be the difference between them and the new one. The rest of this crew understands how work in my city goes; they move quickly, confidently, but everything is done precisely and accurately. It's a fine line to walk.

We advertise the policy that if a job is done ahead of schedule, everyone is welcome to go home with full payments. But, conversely, if anything isn't done right, if _mistakes_ are made, it's a harsher punishment. Go slow enough to get it right, and only speed up once you have it down enough that added speed doesn't sacrifice the quality of the work. Better behind schedule than done wrong.

If I let him live long enough, this idiot from Metropolis will learn that too.

What's entertaining to me, a little bit, is that the manager is pretty much focusing on the new guy like a hawk. It's understandable, and totally possible he was doing it before I got here — better to watch the link in your chain you're not sure can hold up than the already tested ones — but the manager stations himself right next to new-guy and eyes everything he does. It seems to make the idiot kind of self-conscious, but he doesn't make any more stupid mistakes, and maybe it's actually the leader's proximity that makes him stay quiet.

Eventually, all the packages are loaded into the trucks, and without prompting the men split into two teams, one for each truck. They start for the doors, two men from each climbing into the back of the trucks, and I push off my stack of crates and bend my knees to catch the impact's force. My movement causes a pause, a hesitation in all of them, and I flash a sharper smile and aim my gaze towards new-guy.

"Not you," I announce, raising a hand to crook a few of my fingers and beckon him closer. "Why don't you come talk to me?"

It _does_ feel good that two other members of the crew simultaneously make the sign of the cross over their chests, relief sharp in their eyes. The leader winces again, and new-guy just looks a little concerned and confused, but not nearly as much as he should be. He'll learn.

None of the others — as their manager gets them moving again, and radios out to the two men on the roof as well the security outside — offers new-guy anything but a few pitying glances that he doesn't seem to notice. The leader gives me a last nod and climbs into the seat of his truck, and I move a little closer to the man left behind as they pull out. He's standing still, and I get to his side and loop my arm around his shoulders. Jason, or _anyone_ I work with, would recognize my smile as the warning it is. He doesn't.

"Let's talk on the roof, shall we?" I offer, and he looks a little taken aback, but he still hasn't realized how thin the ice is that he's standing on. Apparently he's too busy staring down the black and blue line of my closest leg, to the slight heel at the back of my boot.

"Yes, sir," he answers, jerking his gaze back up to my face.

I squeeze his shoulders briefly, a little harder than what's comfortable, and widen my smile a touch. "The ladder's back in that corner of the room," I say, raising my other arm to flick my hand the direction I'm indicating. "How about I meet you there?"

Bruce won't appreciate it if I get blood in his building, and neither will the cleanup crews that will come through in about an hour to wipe any evidence left behind; like the empty crates. They'll go over the roof too, and replace the lock I broke, but anything up there won't be as obvious as what I might leave down here. Easier cleanup on a rooftop, and more room for error, just in case.

He nods, and I let go of his shoulders and give him what he'll probably interpret as a playful shove in the center of his back. Sure it is, if you count 'playing with your food' as being playful.

Before he has the time to turn back around I'm moving, darting past his side and catching the edge of the stack of crates I was on before. It feels like second nature to push off with both legs, flinging my momentum heels-over-head as I grip the very edge of the crate and twist, letting myself stay suspended on my arms for a moment before letting go. I vaguely hear the startled gasp behind me, but then I'm up and moving again, using the lower stack to get me to higher ones. Easy jumps, but he'll be impressed. He's a _Metropolis_ man, after all.

I don't wait for him. I just head to the back corner, where I originally came down, and lean against the wall next to the ladder. It takes him a bit, but he manages to get back to me. The crates aren't really a maze, mostly they're in straight lines, but it's certainly still faster to just go over the top of them rather than walk through.

I flash him a smirk when he comes out from between the stacks, and jerk my chin up in an indication, towards the top of the ladder and the hatch at the top of it. "Up there," I say, just to make absolutely sure he goes where I want him to.

I'm pretty sure he thinks he's being smooth when he extends a hand, tilts his head down, and answers, "After you." Honestly, all it does is piss me off a little more. _No_ one gets to treat me like that except my family, and I only let them because they _know_ I'm anything but fragile. They know I'm more than what I choose to look like.

If I gave Jason the smile I give this man — bright, my teeth sharp and slightly parted as if I'm about to laugh — he'd be drawing weapons into his hands and mapping out the nearest exit. I choose to hide what I feel behind my smiles, and the larger they get the more I'm using them to mask. I'm _angry_ , and there's jealousy and fear and _fury_ behind my smile but this man apparently doesn't know enough to be afraid. Oh, that will _change_.

"I don't climb ladders," I purr at him, raising my arm and firing the built in grapnel. He watches, eyes widening a little, and I get out, "See you at the top," before I feel the tug of the hook catching on the support beams, and wind my hand around the cable to support my weight as it drags me upward.

I'm just a few inches from the wall, and I watch him instead of it, or the ladder barely a foot from me. He starts climbing the ladder just a few seconds before I reach the top, and when I do I hook my foot over one of the metal rungs, catch another with my free hand, and disengage the grapnel. I take the time to glance down, once, before shoving the hatch open and climbing through. The night air feels good, and I grab a spot sitting on the edge of the electrical box, about fifteen feet from where the hatch lets out.

The men that were stationed up here are gone, called down to join when the others left, and I'm fairly certain the rest of the security is gone as well, though I don't get up to look over the edge of the roof and check. There's no sense in leaving an empty warehouse guarded; it would just be a target until the cleaners get here. Better to make it look like there's nothing in here worth looking at, which is more or less true. Empty crates and a broken rooftop lock are hardly enough for the police to form any kind of case. The cleaners are just for caution, more than any true need for their services.

Finally, the man emerges from the hatch. He looks just slightly out of breath, but that's not too surprising. It's a long climb, and he'd already been moving things.

"Close it," I order, as he straightens up. He nudges the hatch closed with one foot, and I hold my smile on my face as it bangs shut with an obnoxiously loud crash of metal on metal.

"What can I do for you?" He actually looks like he's _eager_ about this. Oh, I'm going to _enjoy_ proving him wrong.

I get to my feet, sliding closer to him at a slight angle so I'm not just approaching head on. I keep myself straight, tall, _relaxed_ , with that twist of my mouth that should be a warning, but only comes across to him as an invitation. It's easy to read the attraction in his eyes, _easy_ to see the drag of his gaze down my suit, along my legs, back to my ass and the angle of my waist and hips. I don't think he notices the way my smile widens a touch, or the way I ease a little bit further into the stalking stride that Jason — behind my back, to Tim — calls my 'sexy-as-fuck but about to murder someone' walk. That's a direct quote.

I step up close beside him, uncomfortably close if he were scared but he's not, so he just stares and swallows, head turned to the side to watch me. "You're from Metropolis, right?" I say, quietly and with a purr to my voice that I know most people can't stop themselves reacting to.

He shivers, mouth parting a little bit, and then nods. "Yeah, that's right. Got into town last week."

I reach forward, tracing my hand down the length of his arm and lingering at his elbow. "What's your name?" I ask, wrapping my fingers around his arm as I slide in a little bit closer. None of my brothers would let me get this close if I was in this kind of a mood, and _none_ of them would let me get a grip on them. They know better.

"Toby," he answers, still not sounding nervous.

"Well, let's talk, _Toby_." I lower my voice a bit more, leaning in to speak almost directly in his ear. When he shivers again, I take the opening.

I slam my boot into his calf, knocking his leg out from under him, and pull his arm back — letting my fingers slide to his wrist — as he falls with a startled shout. He lands on his knees, and I bring my right foot up and shove it against his neck, driving my heel into the front of his throat and pinning his head against the gravel. I twist his arm at the same time, forcing his shoulder down and his elbow to lock, and then brace it against the back of my knee on the leg holding him down. If he moves, one hard yank should snap his elbow like a twig, and I can hold his wrist there with barely any pressure. This already hurts, he won't want to fight the hold.

I lean down, keeping my left leg steady against the ground and bending my torso to meet his wide eyes, pushing down just a little harder on his throat. He chokes, legs kicking out against the rooftop, and I ease up enough to let him breath. Not much, but I'm sure he can drag in at least a little air past that.

"Let's set a few things straight, shall we?" I purr, holding my smile but actually feeling it now. Just a little bit. "This _isn't_ Metropolis, it's _Bludhaven_. This is _my_ city, and I don't run it the way the Ultras run theirs."

"Son of a—" I cut him off, grinding my heel into his throat and allowing myself to enjoy the pain shining in his eyes and plastered across his face.

"Do you know my name, Toby?" I ask, idly, and give it another second before I draw my heel back enough to let him actually answer.

" _Nightingale_ ," he gasps out, and I let my smile flick wider.

"That's right." My tone is mocking approval, and it seems to make him angry, if the push of one of his feet against the rooftop and the narrowing of his eyes is any indication. "So now that we've established where you are, and who I am, let's move on. What makes you think I have any interest in you, or would ever even consider letting you fuck me? Yes, I heard your comment."

In some people, pain and fear make them bravely, _stupidly_ , angry. Apparently _Toby_ is one of them.

"Everyone knows!" he spits out, glaring even though he's breathless. "You'll sleep with anything that moves; you're the _whore_ of the Crime Syndicate."

I break his elbow.

He screams, and I swallow away fury, and pain, and a jealous bitterness that threatens the smile splitting my face. It's _all_ about the show, and I will _not_ let some random man's insults influence what I show the world. He never has to know that I care what he says, and neither does anyone else. No one _ever_ has to know that underneath the armor and the shield of a smile and a blue and black costume, I'm still capable of being hurt. No one gets to know that.

I let go of his arm, satisfied that he's not going to try and run from me now, and pull my foot from his neck to hook it underneath his shoulder and kick him to his back. He's pale, and he grasps uselessly at his arm, eyes wide and his throat arched back. There are small, gasping, noises coming from his throat, and they get sharper and a little more desperate as I step over him, crouching down over his chest with my feet to either side of his waist.

"Let me tell you a little something about sexuality," I say, keeping the low purr of my voice and the smile on my lips. "It has _no_ effect on what someone is capable of." I lower my hand, tracing it down over his arm and across the ruin of his elbow, and he goes very, _very_ still. "The fact that I take what I'm interested in, the _fact_ that I'm not bound to a single person, means _nothing_ except exactly that. You're not the first person to brand me, and I really don't _care_ what you think of me, but you will keep it to yourself. Call me whatever you want in your own head, _Toby_ , but keep it off your tongue."

 _Now_ he looks scared, and I withdraw my hand to rest it over my leg. "I'll clue you in on something else, too. When most species show their teeth, they mean it as a threat. It's a reminder that they could bury their fangs in your throat and _rip_ it out." His breathing — already fast and shallow — quickens just a little bit, and I flash him a wider smile and let my anger sharpen it to a threat that's now obvious even to him. "So, while I'm making sure you remember not to judge how _dangerous_ I am by who I choose to sleep with, I want you to understand that when I smile, _Toby_ , when I _laugh_ , it's not reassurance.

It's a _threat_."

* * *

I rest my back against the corner of the wall, pressing the edge to one side of spine and using it to dig into the slight tension between my shoulders. There's a door to my left, about twenty feet away, with a push-bar across the middle. It's not locked, but it's noisy, and I can be gone and around the corner before anyone gets far enough out to see me. I know, I've tested it.

When I need a moment to breathe, a moment to think, outside the public eye, I come here. The headquarters of the Bludhaven Police Department.

Tim mocks me for it — he thinks it's reckless of me — and even Jason doesn't like it, but this is my city, and I know how she breathes. I know how she works. I know precisely where the cameras are up here, where to sit to avoid them, how to approach without anyone seeing me, and which of the cops below come up here to smoke. Not many, and none that I'm remotely threatened by.

Sad that the list doesn't doesn't include my _favorite_ cop. Which, speaking of...

I retrieve my phone from inside the padded, protected pocket underneath my upper left arm — not my civilian one, but a hardier, better one that circumvents the need to keep constant communication open on the earpieces — and flip it open to hit the power button for the screen. Handmade by Bruce; any kind of outside power button would get activated too much for any real kind of battery power, and with a hard outer shell there's less chance of a stray strike shattering the phone completely.

I shouldn't have the number saved to my contacts list, right below those of all my family, but above my teammates, but I do. I enter it, let it ring, and raise it up to my ear. After three rings it clicks on, and I circumvent his usual greeting.

"Did you get my present?" I ask, closing my eyes as I tilt my head back against the corner of the wall.

There's a moment of silence, and then, _"You mean the man I had to get rushed to the ER, with an unlicensed gun inside the coat they had to_ _ **cut**_ _off him?"_

"He'll live," I comment, carelessly. "The gun's got his fingerprints on it, you shouldn't have a problem convicting him of at least that. Unless you've lost your talent, _Gannon?_ "

 _"It's 'Officer Malloy' to_ _ **you**_ _, Nightingale. Why should I do your dirty work for you?"_ He's indignant, angry, and my mouth flickers in a slight smirk.

Most of the BCPD is corrupt in one way or another — bribery or blackmail takes care of almost everyone — but Gannon is to me what the GCPD's Jim Gordon is to Bruce. Something to toy with, to keep up a public resistance and keep the belief just slightly alive that there are rare members of the police civilians can trust. If they think there's a chance they might speak to a real, law-abiding officer they're more likely to tell someone that will tell me. If a city believes its police are flat out corrupt, then they stop relying on them. That's how we get vigilantes.

There are a few other Bludhaven cops I don't keep under my heel, but Gannon's the most dangerous of them, in some ways. In other ways, he's the weakest, and I take full advantage of that.

"I've already done the dirty work," I point out, with a short laugh. "Besides, just because I happen to want him to learn a lesson doesn't mean _you_ don't want him off the streets too. I'm sure we can come to an," I drop my voice, purr out the last word, " _arrangement_."

_"I'm not making deals with a criminal, and_ _**especially** _ _not you."_

"I'm flattered how much you hate me, really." I shift, line the corner up against the other side of my spine, and press back against it,"but we _both_ know you're lying, _Officer_." I don't flinch when the door to the roof shoves open, just turn my head and smirk up at my favorite cop. "See?" I flick my phone closed, tucking it away, and get to my feet as I eye the gun leveled at my chest. "I call and you come running."

He's tall, broad in the same way Jason is, with muscular shoulders barely contained by the semi-formal white uniform dress shirt, and long legs. He's got short blonde hair that looks a little ruffled at the moment, and light green eyes narrowed down at me.

Tim, if he ever knew I do this, would probably… Well, he'd tell Bruce, and Alfred, and Jason, and then I'd be in the combined crosshairs of their displeasure. It wouldn't be a fun few months, but I'd survive it. At least I would be the focus of their attention, which would be a nice change from recent times. Even if the attention was negative.

"Hands in the air," he orders, dropping his phone inside the right-side pocket of his slacks, and bringing the now-free hand up to brace the gun and switch his grip to a more comfortable one. One leading with his dominant hand.

I consider him, and then let the smirk stay on my lips as I answer, "No, I don't think so. You know, it's a special kind of rude to hold a gun on someone who just gave you a present."

"I think you're mispronouncing 'trash to dispose of,' but nice try. What did he do, anyway? You don't do that kind of damage to your employees without good reason, I know that."

Gannon's tried turning a lot of my people, but everyone knows the simple rules of telling Owl secrets. There is no protection, you _will_ be found, and whatever sentence you were threatened with by the police, or heroes, will be child's play compared to what spilling secrets will earn you. We pay well, we offer good deals, and we make sure our employees stay satisfied with what they get when they work for us. We don't build gang members, we build mercenaries. We pay them, we protect them, and they stay loyal to us. A little fear of punishment never hurts, of course. But only if the punishment is _earned_.

"I may have done more than he deserved," I admit, with a tilt of my head. "I suppose he didn't back down when I gave him the chance to." I deliberately tilt my head down to the gun in his hands, and then flash a sharp smile at him. "Does that sound familiar, Gannon?" I have very few issues with a gun being pointed at me, especially because I doubt he'll actually pull the trigger as long as I'm not overtly aggressive, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it.

He hesitates, his eyes flicker down to the gun as well, and then he swallows and slowly lowers the weapon. He's not dumb enough to think that a gun will take me down, and he's not suicidal enough to think I'll let him leave this rooftop alive — or at least without something that'll put him out of play for a few months — if he tries taking a shot at me. He moves warily, and I watch him tuck the gun away into the holster at his right hip, snapping the top of it closed, movements exaggerated for caution's sake. His hands fall to his sides, and I let the smile slip a little bit.

Gannon's one of the few that knows my smiles don't mean anything but threat, most of the time, and as much as I like to challenge him I don't usually mean my threats.

"Come sit down," I offer, leaning against the corner of the wall. "There's a nice blind spot here; no one needs to know you sat around with a criminal."

I stretch my arms out over my head, arching to crack my back, but keep my eyes open to watch him react. The crack does feel good, but mostly I do it for the sharp flick of his eyes down the curved line of my arched back, and the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. Gannon's weakness, as I know and exploit. He's firmly homosexual, and I know I'm attractive; I _know_ he's attracted to me. I designed my suit to emphasize the best points of my physical build, to distract those it could and make others not take me as seriously, and _oh_ has Gannon fallen into that first trap.

The dark lines of blue that cut across my back, brightening to a lighter blue as they end in downwards sweeping points, outline the curve of my spine. The two lines of blue that circle my wrists and sweep up the outside of my arms, ending at points just before my palms and up on either side of my neck, give a line to the arch of my throat in a flip, and the grip of my hand around a cable or my knives. The ones that start at the front of my hips, curving around to the back of my thighs and sweeping all the way down my legs, frame my ass, and draw the eye to any extension of my legs as well as the way both limbs bend and curve from the thick, two-inch heels at the back of my boots.

Bruce and Tim are shadows, but I designed myself to suit a spotlight.

Gannon pauses, and I let my arms rest above my head as I watch him, _taunt_ him with the possibility of coming over and wrapping a hand around my wrists to hold them there. I might not even stop him if he did; assuming he didn't go for handcuffs or something at the same time. Well, I'm not entirely opposed to handcuffs, though I prefer the grip of fingers. As if I need my hands to protect myself.

"I have work to do," he says, with a strained edge, and it _definitely_ sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

"That's why you're up here?" I tease, and hold back the urge to smile. I don't want to threaten him; I'm _coaxing_.

He glances at the door to his right, unsure, and his left hand curls to a fist. "This isn't some kind of play to make me miss something?" he asks, sharp and wary. I suppose that's a fair thought.

I twist my hands, drawing his eyes up the lines of my arms to the press of my wrists against the wall. He twitches and _yanks_ his gaze back down. "If I wanted you to miss something, I would have dragged you over here and tied you up the second you came through that door, Officer Malloy." It's a peace offering, and I let my smile fade almost completely off my face to make him believe I mean it. "I'm only up here to breathe; what we do past that is up to you."

And I mean it.

I'm here to take a breath away from the grime of the alleys, and out from underneath whatever eyes might be watching. I'm here, in the _safest_ place in Bludhaven, to let my mask slip for a minute and just think. If all Gannon wants to do is sit next to me and breathe the same air, he's welcome to. If he wants to turn around, go back to work, and leave me alone on his rooftop, he's welcome to do that too. I have no interest in forcing him to stay up here, or do anything he doesn't want to, but I find the presence of someone I'm not expected to look perfect for to be calming. We might be something like enemies but Gannon's watched me, and seen me around, enough to know me almost as well as my family. My mask wouldn't fool him anyway.

His obsession entertains me, most days.

He starts forward, slowly, and I stay still and watch as he comes up beside me. He hesitates, glancing up along the line of my arms, and then down the slight arch of my back and my closer leg. There's a moment as his weight shifts closer, and he takes in a slightly deeper breath, that I think he's actually going to make a first move. That he might reach forward and press his hands down over my wrists, lean in and actually live a fantasy.

But then he's shifting away again and pressing his back against the wall next to me, gaze dragged off to the side and away from me. He looks a bit like someone who just realized how close they might have come to death — slightly parted mouth, paler skin, wider eyes — and I give a soft snort at the comparison.

"Shame," I say quietly, in reference to his decision, and allow my arms to lower back down to my sides. He looks over as I stretch out my legs and slide back down to sitting.

"Shame?" he echoes, very slowly sitting down beside me. Not sliding — wouldn't want to get that shirt dirty — but pulling away from the wall enough to fold his legs beneath him before resettling. His right arm presses defensively down along his belt and the holster for his gun, both only about half a foot away from my left hand. Like he thinks I might try and steal the weapon even though the knife strapped to my thigh is closer, faster, and much more my style.

I turn my head, meeting his gaze, and raise an eyebrow. He might be able to see the movement of muscle, even if it's hidden underneath my mask. "About your morals. Have a boyfriend somewhere, _Officer?_ "

He doesn't. I know that. I know almost everything there is to know about Gannon Malloy. What he eats, where he lives, how he exercises, who he chooses to sleep with; _all_ of it. The answer to that last one is casually, pickups from bars that are taken to motel rooms and given a single night and left to sleep things off. He's not proud of it, and I've watched him enough to know that he holds off until the frustration makes him seek someone out. He doesn't fuck roughly, but it's hard and long and fairly skilled. Not something I'd mind taking advantage of, with the right chance.

"No," he answers, defensively, and I smirk.

"I wouldn't hurt you, if that's what you're worried about. Not badly, anyway." I might claw at him a bit; leave a few bite marks to remind him the night happened, but I save my more painful nights for Jason. He likes the pain.

Or, he did. I guess I won't be doing that anymore, now that he has _Arsenal_.

"You're a criminal," he says, like that should be all the reason he needs. To him, I suppose it is.

"What's your point?" I counter.

"You're _Nightingale_ ," he stresses, and then shakes his head and remarks, almost bitterly, "Don't you sleep with enough people?"

I turn on him faster than my thoughts can follow, wrapping my fingers around his throat and shoving his head back against the wall, my other hand wrapping around his right wrist and twisting it as he gives a shocked, choked noise and starts to struggle. His left hand wraps around my wrist, trying to drag my fingers away from his throat, and I tighten my grip. I realize I'm snarling about when my thoughts catch up to my actions, and I loosen my fingers, though I still keep his right wrist painfully twisted and held away from his gun.

He gasps, and I flex my hand to get his attention and gaze back on me, ignoring the pull of his grip. "It's been a _bad_ night," I tell him flatly, flashing him a bright smile to cover up the twist of my lips in a snarl. I am _not_ Jason. "So I'd be _really_ careful about the next words that come out of your mouth, Officer Malloy."

I can feel him swallow, see the slight fear, anger, wariness, and survival instinct kicking in as I watch him. He lets go of my wrist, holding that hand up in surrender, tilting his head back a bit to bare his throat to my grip. It's not exactly what I was looking for, but it does ease some of the fury swirling in the hollow of my chest.

"I'm sorry," he gets out, past the grip of my fingers. "It was a stupid comment, I shouldn't have said it." I loosen my hand, keeping it resting there but with almost no pressure, and he takes in a deeper breath and winces, his right arm twitching in what's probably pain.

"How I choose to act isn't who I am," I say quietly, to him but _mostly_ to myself. _I_ know there's more to me, but does anyone else? Does _anyone_ see me past the costume and the shield of my smiles? Jason, _Bruce?_

"I know," he answers, voice sounding a little easier, head ducking a little bit as he holds my gaze. Still wary, but the fear is gone. "It's a weapon, all of it. You're using what you look like to make _stupid_ people like me make dumb assumptions. I wasn't thinking, and I swear I know better than to think that just because you're attractive you're not also one of the deadliest people in the world. I _really_ know that."

I consider him, tilting my head and watching him wince again, feeling the shudder of his shoulder from the twist of his wrist. "That's not a bad first step," I admit, flashing him a much smaller smile. "Continue."

So much of me clings to his words as validation — it's a weakness, I know it is, and I am _so_ good at not needing it but right now, _tonight_ … — and I wait as he swallows and wets his lips, obviously considering what he's going to say next.

"I've seen the people you leave behind," he starts, quietly. "I've seen people dead, and hurt, and scared out of their minds because of whatever you did to them. I would _never_ make the mistake of taking you at face value, and that's—" He cuts off, and I lessen the twist of his wrist in reward, to prompt him to continue. I want to _know_ what it is, I want to hear him say it. He hesitates, then seems to gather whatever determination he's got to continue speaking. "That's why it doesn't matter what anyone else says about you. I know you'd never do anything but exactly what you want to, including other people. You take them, not the other way around."

I let go of his wrist, sliding my hand up his bare forearm to the rolled back cuff of his shirt, just past his elbow. He winces one last time, rolling his wrist until it cracks, but otherwise stays still until I pull my hand away from his throat. He might have a few bruises, or be a little sore, but there won't be any lasting damage.

"Consider me impressed," I answer, with a teasing edge, as I pull my weight back onto my heels. "Most people don't see much past my legs, until I've hurt them once or twice."

"They're idiots," he answers, lowering his left hand from its show of surrender. "Bludhaven knows; _I_ know."

At the moment, that's _exactly_ what I wanted to hear. I know it of course, I _know_ that everyone underestimates me, and that what I choose to do is _my_ choice, not theirs, but it's so good to hear from someone else.

I lean in, brushing my hand up his arm to grip his shoulder and push him back against the wall as I press my lips in against his. He makes a shocked, protesting noise, left hand coming up to press at my shoulder, but it's at about the same time as his hand reaches my shoulder that he realizes what's happening. So what would probably have been a shove turns into a clench of his fingers, caught between his moral issues and his attraction. I ignore whatever mental debate he's having, raising my right hand to slide up his side and feel the muscle beneath his shirt. I'm already partially crouched over him, but it's only a stealthy shift of my weight and stretch of one leg to settle myself across his lap.

He makes another small, choked, noise as I make myself comfortable, and I pull away from the one-sided kiss after a moment. He's stiff, tense, and I can practically _feel_ the threads of morality stretched tight in his mind. He doesn't open his eyes, like if he can't see me he can deny that I'm here.

"I'm not interested in any strings," I inform him, smoothing my hand out over his shoulder. His eyes crack open, and I meet his gaze with a small smirk. "But I could use the distraction. All you have to do is tell me 'no,' if this isn't something you want."

He shivers, staring at me in something between disbelief and restrained desire. "You're…? But…" His voice hardens. "I _shouldn't_."

I tap my fingers against his shoulder, offer him another smirk. "How about you think about it for the rest of your shift, _Gannon?_ If you get home and don't want it, all I'll need to hear is a 'no.' " I press a little closer against him — he somehow stiffens a little further, but not in the right ways — and drop my voice to whisper, "You've got my word."

He stares at me, breathing shallowly, like he's trying not to expand his chest far enough I'll notice it. "Why are you giving me a choice?"

I tilt my head, flash him a sharp smile, and press his shoulder a little harder against the wall. "I might touch and tease, Officer, but I don't take people who don't want it. It's not my thing, and I have plenty of people to pick from if my first choice says no. I've never felt the need to force anyone."

"Does that make me your first choice?" Gannon asks, wary and still tense, but maybe a little less so.

 _Jason_.

My smile drops for a second, and then I give an even brighter one to hide the sick swirl of anger and pain in my stomach. "No," I answer, trying not to think about narrowed blue-green eyes and the jerk of broad shoulders underneath my nails, "but you'll do for a second one." I push myself to my feet, stepping back, and I'm sure I could figure out what exactly my favorite cop is looking at me with, but I don't want to at the moment. "I'll see you at the end of your shift, _Gannon_ ," I purr, flipping him a mocking salute before turning to walk to the ledge of the roof.

The fire and pull of my cable yanks me from the edge, takes me back out the simplest way to avoid the cameras, and it might be tempting but I don't look back to see what my cop is doing. I _don't_.

Most people are disposable, and he's no exception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, for once, every single part of this was planned. With one giant, glaring exception. _Gannon_. Gannon was not supposed to be there at the top of the BCPD, and he was certainly not supposed to be convinced to think about having casual sex with Dick. But then I remembered that he's a canon character from Dick's days as a Bludhaven police officer, and I _had_ to have him in here. He even spawned his own little story in my head, which we will explore eventually.
> 
> So, next up will of course be chapter two of this, where we play the game of 'Gee, what could have spawned an entire 10K words out of this finished story? And why is there no sex in this even though the tags say- _Ohhh..._ ' See you later!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaha, did I say 10K of a second chapter? I meant 14K. Anyway, been awhile, I know, my apologies. I changed shifts at work, and there's been stuff, and... yeah, anyways. I'm going to be swapping when I update to Mondays and Fridays, and we're going to have a week (as an apology to everyone) where I'm going to post something every single day. Now before you get too excited, this is also going to be an excuse for me to post the last of the Bleach stuff I have saved, and officially say goodbye to that Fandom. That shouldn't take up the whole week, so there will definitely be at least a few bits of DC stuff in there.
> 
> Starting with this! So, enjoy your porn guys, and a bit of explanation into why Dick sleeps with people the way he does. **Warnings for this chapter are :** Some really explicit sex, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and did I mention some really explicit sex? Dick isn't shy.

Gannon's apartment is nice enough, but I knew that already. It doesn't particularly look lived in — he takes long shifts, and generally washes everything as soon as he's finished eating — and it lacks the basic decoration of most homes, the small knickknacks here and there that are just trinkets from who knows where. Of course, I bugged his home within weeks of him openly starting his campaign to stop me. Just to keep an eye on him.

I tend to save reviews of the visual feeds for when I've got nothing better to do, and feel like enjoying myself. The showers, especially, are a treat.

While I wait, I busy myself exploring the drawers and cupboards of his home. I know where the important things are, but I've never taken the time to figure out precisely what he keeps in all the different storage areas. It's not precisely important information, but it could prove useful later. More important is the advantage of being able to find anything I may want without having to ask him where it is. Reinforce the idea that Owls know everything, even trivial things like where he keeps his spices.

His dresser ends up being slightly more interesting than the cupboards in his kitchen, but mostly because I get to pick out what I've seen him wear, and what he apparently never does. Most of it is semi-formal clothes, neatly folded slacks and collared shirts, but there is a section of more casual clothes that's mostly jeans and solid color tanktops and t-shirts. I make sure everything is precisely where it was when I looked, before I close each drawer and move on.

Eventually — I've been resisting the occasional urges to look at the time — I hear the distinctive click of a door opening, and softly close the drawer I'm currently looking through to straighten up. My steps are silent, of course, as I cross the light hardwood flooring and slip up next to the partially open door of his bedroom, peering around it and into the main living room. The overhead light flicks on, and I watch Gannon close the door behind him, lock it, and then pause, head turning to scan the room. I sink back as his gaze passes over this door, and he misses me in the shadows.

Not surprising, or even really disappointing. I prefer startling people to having them spot me.

He's still cautious as he heads deeper inside his home, discarding his jacket on the back of the couch as he passes. There's a folder underneath his left arm, and he strides past the door I'm behind to the dining table in front of the kitchen section of the apartment, and drops it there. He leans down, both hands bracing on the table for a moment, as his head hangs. I don't have to be close to see the tension in his shoulders, but it does prompt me to slip past the door and approach him.

He straightens up, raking a hand back through his hair with a heavy sigh, and then reaches both hands to unbuckle the holster at his waist. I wait until he's set it on top of the folder with a weighty clunk and taken half a step back before alerting him to my presence.

"Officer."

He spins, but to his credit he doesn't curse or even reach for the gun. Smart man. He looks startled, but he's not afraid or even angry, and the surprise fades away pretty quickly.

"You're really here," he says, disbelieving, with a flick of his gaze down my frame that's interestingly brief.

"I really am." I step closer, glancing at the folder. Interested, yeah, but I'm not interested enough to find out what's in it right in front of him. I can at least wait until later. "Make a decision?"

He hesitates, then nods. "I have questions, before I commit to anything."

I head forward, and he turns with me as I slide around him — I give him a couple feet of space, to keep him somewhat comfortable — and prop my left hip up on the edge of his table, bracing my weight on my right leg and drawing the left up to fold on top of the table. His gaze follows the length of my straight leg, then the other, and I brace both hands behind me and lean back a bit. He swallows.

"I might answer." If what he wants to know can't be damaging in any way, and doesn't offend me. He's not saying 'no' quite yet, and if answering a few harmless questions gets me what I want, so be it. "Ask away."

I can see the glint of consideration in his eyes, the studying edge to his gaze. "Who was your first choice?"

I pause, but then answer, "Red Hood." He looks surprised, blinks, and I smirk. "He's been mine a very long time." Not anymore though, not now that _Arsenal's_ swept in and taken his heart. I don't own Jason anymore. "Move on," I prompt.

Gannon swallows again, still looking a bit shocked, and then nods. "Then, why me?"

"I wanted a distraction and you were there," I tell him bluntly, arching an eyebrow. "If you hadn't come out onto the rooftop, I probably would have found someone else. If I wanted to deal with traveling out of Bludhaven. Next."

At the least, he doesn't seem offended that I'm only pursuing this because he happened to be convenient. What I _won't_ be telling him is that I also don't particularly feel like guarding myself right now, and I'm nearly convinced he's honorable enough not to try and kill or arrest me in the middle of sex, which is more than I can say for some of the alternatives I could be sleeping with. Not all of them would be safe enough for me to let loose, and most I would have to stay in complete, _utter_ control of. I'm not particularly interested in that at the moment, though I'd take it if nothing else was possible.

"You said it was a bad night," he starts, cautiously, and I can feel my smirk slip away. "What happened?" I _barely_ keep myself from flashing a smile that's bright and nasty and 'get the _fuck_ away from me.'

"I lost something," I say, flatly. Lost Jason, and lost him to _Roy_ , that _pathetic_ archer. How can someone like that appeal to him? To _my_ Jason? "The rest is my business."

Gannon must hear the warning in my voice, even though I held back my smile, because I can see his weight shift like he's going to step back, before he stills. "Alright." He takes in a deeper breath, and then nods. "I'm in."

My smirk comes back, and I tilt my head and flick my gaze up and down the white, collared, close-fitting shirt. I might have some fun with that tie too. "Good. Why don't you come here?" He hesitates, but does as I've asked after a moment.

He approaches me, and I reach out to catch the end of his tie and reel him in between my legs. He's cautious, and I fix it by looping my left, raised, leg around his waist and pulling him closer. His hands end up on my sides, groin pressed in against mine, and something like desire and disbelief warring on his face.

"There are a few ground rules," I say quietly, winding his tie idly around my knuckles to drag him down. I don't kiss him, not yet, but wait for his acknowledging nod. "One; if you touch my mask, I'll cut your throat and burn your apartment to the ground." He flinches a little bit, but there's understanding in his eyes. "Two; unless you enjoy being electrocuted, don't try taking my suit off until I tell you it's alright. The defenses will knock you unconscious, and that makes you useless to me." I can feel his hands lighten on my sides, and the wariness in his gaze sharpens a little. "Three; no marks high enough to show while I'm in costume. I can hide them, but I'll be unhappy about having to. You _really_ don't want that."

"Got it," he answers, and I tug him down a little further, tighten my leg around his waist.

"Four; no interruptions. I don't care _what_ you think might happen; turn your phone off." I have had _enough_ nights ruined by a ringing phone, and not all of my temporary partners were smart enough to ignore them. _Mine_ is different; the only call I answer in the middle of sex is the one preceded by the sharp beep of the alarm that Bruce can trigger on my phone, telling me it really is an emergency.

Without a word, Gannon pulls his left hand back and fishes in his pocket, retrieving a slim black phone that he activates one-handed. He holds the power button down until it vibrates once and then goes black, and then tosses it onto the table behind me. I smirk, and pull him down to reward him with a kiss. He's not as tense this time — though still fairly stiff in all the wrong ways — and actually responds, his left hand touching my thigh and trailing up to my hip. I don't press for a tongue, and keep my teeth to myself, for now, as I pull back a bit.

"This is really happening," he says, light green eyes flicking open wider than normal, "isn't it?"

I raise my other hand to slide along the front of his chest, finding the slight gaps between buttons to push my fingers through and find skin. He shudders. "That it is. I expect a good time, _Officer_. Whenever you get over being starstruck."

_That_ seems to snap him out of his disbelief, and he takes in a steadying breath and leans into another kiss. His right hand strokes up my side, my neck, and back to cradle my skull. There's a bit of pressure, but it's nothing close to the way I've been yanked or pushed before, it's barely even what I'd call a grip. His mouth is warm on mine, and the hand on my hip gains a little strength and slides back down to my thigh. His fingers are almost massaging, and it might be through the reinforced fabric and armor of my suit, but I can feel it enough for it to be nice.

I start undoing the buttons of his shirt, one-handed, and he presses a little closer in reaction, his tongue flicking along the seam of my lips. I part them, and he holds my head in place as he takes the invitation to slide his tongue into my mouth. He's a good kisser, which is nice to know. It's one of the few things I didn't know about how he fucks; it's hard to tell how well someone kisses just by watching from a distance, since so many people don't know enough about it to judge one way or another. It's a sadly ignored skill.

I make a sound of approval into his mouth, flexing my leg around his waist, and I can feel him twitch and push forward at the feeling. I get to the end of the buttons, and tug the shirt out from where it's tucked into his slacks. I can barely feel the warmth of his skin through my gloves, as I stroke my hand up his side, but I can feel the pressure of muscle. I already know that he's got pretty good definition — not like mine, of course, or any of the rest of my family, but good for a normal person — but it's nice to feel it, and it'll be even better under my bare hands later, when we've moved on to the actual fucking, and I've let him take off my suit.

I pull back just a touch, a hint, and he immediately responds by breaking the kiss for me. Hmm, that's _nice_. I flick my eyes open, tilting my head a bit and dropping it for a second to rake my gaze over the revealed planes of his torso. Not bad at all.

"Almost a shame to take this off," I tell him, flashing a wicked smirk as I tug at the tie wound around my knuckles. "I kind of like having you on a leash."

He swallows, _hard_ , and then quietly comments, "So long as you don't strangle me with it, I don't mind if it stays on."

That pulls a slightly smaller smirk from me, without my consent, and I slide my hand up his chest to pull the collar of his shirt out from underneath the tie. I slip two fingers between his throat and the looped fabric, checking how tight it is — fairly loose, actually, there's plenty of give before it gets dangerous — and then pulling them back to push his shirt off his right shoulder.

"I'll think about it." He shivers when my fingers trail back up his throat, and I almost lean forward to sink my teeth into his skin before I reign myself in. "I leave marks," I tell him, leaving no room for argument. "Any limitations?" Usually I don't ask, but then, most of the people I sleep with are metahumans and fellow criminals. Free sex isn't nearly as taboo among us as it is among normal civilians, and one of my sorta-allies bearing my teeth marks isn't really considered anything strange.

Gannon has a real job, and no mask to hide behind. If he has the same restrictions as I do — no marks where they'll normally show — I'll respect it. For the most part. I _do_ like to leave claims on the people I choose to own, and Gannon's been mine as long as he's openly defied me. This is just a step further.

He jerks a little bit at the mention of marks, though all I can see in his eyes is desire, and at my question his tongue comes out to wet his lips. I hold back on chasing it into his mouth; I want an answer. At the least, I want one so that I can completely ignore it. Even if he doesn't like marks at all — not likely, considering that little jerk of motion — I'll be leaving them; it's my own way of making sure people remember me. I only use the pain I can cause on Jason, because he likes it, or on the allies I let fuck me, and not the other way around. If I'm putting myself in a position of anything but control then I make sure that they stay wound around my fingers, and at the mercy of the next swipe of my nails. So they remember that I'm _dangerous_ , no matter what I'm allowing them to do to me.

"I don't like to bleed, and I'd rather not have to explain myself to the entire precinct." It doesn't sound like a flat out no, and I tilt my head and watch him, flicking my lips into a brief smile.

" 'Rather?' That doesn't sound too _firm_ , Officer."

His eyes close for a second, and then he gives a small shake of his head. "I don't like being mocked for having sex, and most of my coworkers are jackasses. The gay jokes are enough without giving them real proof something happened."

"Intolerant jackasses?" I guess, and he gives a very thin, tight smile and nods. "I get it." I don't like it, but I've had enough remarks thrown my way to understand where he's coming from. _He_ can't just beat the offender up or kill them, and I'd guess it's harder to weather harassers when you don't have the option of slitting their throat or torturing them into respecting you. When you have to just sit and take whatever they feel like telling you.

" _You?_ " he asks, incredulously. "You kill anyone who mocks you, I've seen it."

My jaw tightens a little bit, and then I force it loose and flash a sharp smile. "Not everyone. You shouldhave seen the time Ultraman backhanded me." That still _infuriates_ me to think about, but after Kon-El's terrified apology, and him never coming near me again, I got over my hatred of the clone. At least enough that I didn't raise a fuss about Tim sleeping with him; a pet Kryptonian is a useful thing after all. Bruce should have kept a better handle on _his_. It took a _long_ time for my cheekbone to heal from the break.

I tap my fingers along his throat, slide them over his shoulder, and admit, "There are certain people I'm not allowed to harm, no matter what they say." I can usually ignore it, or at least be comforted by the knowledge that Bruce won't let insults to our family go without reprisal, but not being able to tear their throats apart myself still stings. At least most of the Crime Syndicate knows that it's usually not worth it. After all, they've all got their own secrets, and we know _all_ of them.

"Is that why _you_ don't allow marks?" he asks, curious, and I laugh and shake my head. It's _refreshing_ to have someone ask questions and actually deal with me like I'm another human being, and not just a title or a piece of meat.

"Not really, no. I've got my own reasons." Keep up the show. If I walk around with visible marks it means someone got close enough to hurt me, even if I'm the one that let it happen. It ruins my image of being untouchable. "I'll keep my teeth in check, Officer. Do the same for yours; I don't like to bleed either."

He still looks curious, but I get an acknowledging nod. "I will." I let go of his tie so I can shove his shirt back off the other shoulder, dragging it down to his elbow. He's got enough ingrained obedience in him to let go of his grip on my scalp and thigh, and let the shirt slide off his arms to drop on the floor.

I let another smile flash across my face, stroking both my hands up his chest. "Close your eyes," I order, _purring_ the words, and he shudders, looks wary for a second, but obeys. I pull my hands away from his skin, lowering them to deactivate the defenses on my suit. He couldn't replicate it even if he tried — the suit interacts with sensors in the fingertips of the glove, Tim's idea — but better not to even give him the idea. The less people know about how our suits work, the better.

It doesn't make any noise — no visual or audial clue of success, that part's Bruce's idea — but I've done it enough to know that it's worked. So I raise my hands back up, sliding them up either side of his ribs until they're high enough that I can reach in with my right hand and grip his tie again. He doesn't resist the pull into a kiss, and I can feel in the flex of muscle underneath the hook of my leg how he wants to reach forward, but he doesn't. _Good_ boy.

I let him go after a moment, making a sharp sound of approval against his mouth. "Unless you're interested in fucking me across the table, we should move." I'm not real opposed to that, actually, but from what I've seen I don't think he's the kind of casual fuck that would do that. Not for a first time, anyway.

He gives a soft groan, his hips pressing forward into mine for a second. "Yeah," he manages, after that. "Moving." His eyes stay closed, and the reminder that I never told him he could open them, and he _didn't_ , blooms satisfaction deep in my chest.

"Think you're strong enough to support my weight?" I'm pretty sure he is, but I am pretty much solid muscle, and that's heavier than anyone gives it credit for.

He's confident though, when he answers, "Yes."

" _Good_." I tighten my left leg around his waist and push off of my straightened right leg, resting my weight on the table as I bring it up to link around the other side of his waist. "You can open your eyes." They flick open, another faint shudder working down his spine as he meets my gaze. "I _like_ that you listen so well, Gannon," I purr softly, stroking my free hand up to work my fingers into the muscle of his shoulder. "That's going to earn you a _lot_ of points."

"What do points get me?" he asks, voice low and thick with desire.

I let my lips curl into a smirk, letting go of his tie to wrap my hand around his left wrist and bring it up. " _Rewards_." He takes in a sharp breath just before I part my mouth and catch the end of his index finger between my teeth. I keep my gaze on him so I can watch his eyes widen and his breath catch, as I draw his finger between my lips and show him a little fraction of what I'm capable of with my mouth. I might not do this for almost anyone — Jason stands out as the biggest exception — but I'm good at it. I made sure I was.

If I'm going to have the reputation as the whore of the Crime Syndicate, I'm _also_ going to have the reputation of the best sex they'll ever have. Anyone who tries to claim they didn't _love_ the night they spent with me will be a _liar_.

"That's—" Gannon starts, and then takes in a shaky breath. " _Jesus_. I'll do anything you _want_ for that." I grin, give a last, slow, lingering suck to his finger, and let go. I curl my hand around the back of his neck.

"You can start by carrying me to your bed." Will I actually consider it? Maybe. If he's satisfying enough, and keeps his attention focused on pleasing me. If he _snaps_ to attention when I tell him to do something.

His hands lower, curling underneath my thighs to get a solid grip. I tighten my grip around his waist, on the back of his neck, and brace my other arm over his shoulder and down his back. He takes a slightly deeper breath and shifts, pulling my weight up off the table. I can see the tension in his muscles, the slight strain because I _am_ heavier than most people think, and I eye the way his muscle stands out in appreciation. He takes my weight low on his hips, not across his back and shoulders like so many inexperienced people do when they carry things, and he's steady when he steps back and turns my back towards the door of his bedroom.

I lean into him, resisting the urge to shift my grip to anything more distracting than his back and neck, but do lower my head to graze my teeth high over his shoulder. I can feel his breath catch, and I could _really_ bite down but I decide not do. Instead I use just enough teeth, and much more suction, to break the blood vessels and make sure it marks. The first of many.

I can hear the faint sound of hinges as he pushes the door open — by the momentary unsteadiness I'd guess he does it with one foot — steps through, and then leans sideways. I pull my head back out of the way as he uses that shoulder to flick the light switch to the right of the door.

"Sit down on the edge of it," I command, murmuring it into his ear. His grip on my thighs tightens for a second, and he moves further into the room. My memory of the distance is about right, and then he turns and swivels. He falls more than sits down, but holding someone as solid as me while you bend to sit is a difficult thing. We bounce a little bit after landing.

I unhook my legs from around his waist, pressing my knees into the bed to bear my own weight and straddle him. His hands loosen and then stroke up around my thighs, to my hips. I can nearly _feel_ how badly he wants to grab my ass, but he doesn't, and that brings another sharp burst of satisfaction. I reward him with a kiss, sliding my hands back and up to unknot his tie. _Fun_ as it would be to keep it on, I also don't want it falling in my face, and I can always use it to tie him up later if I want to. I discard it to the side, encouraging the press of his tongue with a downwards grind of my hips. I can't feel much through the armor, and the cup, but he chokes out a low groan.

I consider letting him strip me of my suit for about ten seconds before discarding the idea. I love the feeling, but he doesn't know how like some of my more regular fucks, and I don't want to teach him how my suit works. Maybe later.

I draw back, sliding my left leg down off the bed to brace against the floor and stroking my hands down his chest. "Take off your shoes," I order, when his eyes drag back open to look at me. I push myself up to my feet, stepping away and not looking back as I head to his dresser. The top of it is conveniently almost completely empty.

I drop my hands to my own thighs and, with an easy familiarity, unbuckle the sheaths on each thigh, the ones holding my usual knives. It would be more intimidating to pull the bare blades into my hands and set those aside, leave my sheaths strapped on, and usually I do just that. But Gannon doesn't need to be intimidated, and the straps will need to be taken off to get the bottom half of my costume off anyway.

Resisting the urge to look back and see how closely he's watching me is hard, but I manage it. I set the sheaths, with my blades, on top of his dresser, and fish out my phone to set it up there as well. I disengage the hooks for my gloves, but don't pull them off just yet, and then I _do_ glance back, flashing my cop a smirk. He's got one shoe and sock off, and is working on the laces of the other, but he goes very still when I reach both arms behind my back. Practice makes dragging the zipper at the back of my neck down by myself easy, though I do it slower than I usually would. Put on a _show_.

I transfer the handle of the zipper to my lower left hand, smoothly, and raise my right hand to rake up through my hair as I lower my head and round my shoulders to emphasize the curve of my spine. I know what it looks like, and I know the reaction it gets from absolutely everyone. I pull it down all the way to the small of my back, and then turn my head just enough to make it clear I can see him, before I raise my left hand to my mouth. I flash my teeth in a smile — here, threat is a _perfect_ part of the act — and then bite down on the tips of my index, ring, and pointer fingers.

I've heard the reactions people give when I pull my gloves off with my own teeth before, but it _never_ stops giving me that shot of lust-fueled pride.

" _Fuck_ ," Gannon says, eloquently, from across the room, as I pull my hand from inside the elbow-length glove. I arch my neck a bit to get the full effect, watching him from the corner of my eye. His eyes are wide, and he's frozen where he's still half-bent over his left leg, fingers tangled in the laces of his boot.

My fingers clear the end of the glove and I let it drop from between my teeth, lowering my arm so I can draw my right hand out of my hair and repeat the show. The main layer of suit still covers almost all the way down to my wrists, but I know it's the drag of material, and the contrast of the black against the white of my teeth, that's the real draw. The bit of skin at the end is just bonus, and matches up with the slice of my back exposed by the pulled down zipper. I know exactly how all of this works, I've taught myself to be a one-man show for _years_. Sexual or not.

I let my right glove drop too, and then stretch that arm around and back over my left shoulder, hooking the edge of my suit and pulling it away. I slide it over the muscle of my shoulder and down my arm, simultaneously rolling my shoulder back to draw my limb out of it as I pull down. It's a smooth, practiced movement; like the way I slide my freed hand down the outside of my thigh for a moment before releasing my grip on my suit and reversing the motion. Symmetry is a powerful force, and the second roll of my other shoulder as I repeat the technique is almost more appealing than the first. The fact that it bares my whole back is the important part.

I let the suit fall, and bend forward to run my hands down the outside of my legs to the connections that keep the built-in boots tight enough around my ankles not to slip. They have to be loose enough to slip into, so the straps at the inside of my ankles keeps them from moving while I work, and then unbuckles to make taking them off just as easy. I straighten up slowly, with an arch of my back and a refusal to bend my legs, trailing my hands back up the outsides of my thighs. It's an easy hook of my thumbs and slow push to get the material over my hips, where it slips down my legs without the tension or straps of my sheaths to hold it up.

From there it's a practiced half-step to press my weight down on the tip of my boot, holding it there as I pull my left leg up and out of the pinned material. I raise my arms above my head, putting a twist in my back and hips that makes them the main focus of attention, and the withdrawal of my legs from the last of my suit a background act. It leaves me in just the tight black briefs I wear under my suit, but I leave that for now. I can give him _something_ left to take off.

I turn slowly, letting my arms slide down, tap against either side of my hips as I face him again. His mouth is parted, eyes wide, and he's still frozen with his fingers in those laces. Somewhere caught between struggling to breathe through the desire, and shocked into silence. I can work with that.

I stalk towards him, knowing that outside of my suit the roll and twist of my walk is more obvious. More eye-catching. I taught myself to exaggerate it so it would be clear even hidden beneath my suit, so when the suit comes off that extra sway draws _anyone's_ gaze. It definitely draws Gannon's, and I watch him swallow, watch him jerk into movement after the first couple steps. He shoves the shoe off his foot, along with the sock, and sharply straightens up. His gaze rakes up my legs, lingers on my hips, then jerks up my chest and actually all the way to my face.

"Like what you see?" I tease, with a curl of my lips, as I come to a stop just outside the part of his knees.

He nods, eyes still wide and gaze drifting down again, his left hand curling in the sheets beneath his fingers. " _Hell_ yes," he says, rough and low.

I shift closer between his legs, and reach forward to shove him onto his back. He goes without a fight, and I lean down to slide my hands up his thighs, catching my short nails in the slightly coarse material. "Get all the way on the bed, vertical, on your back, and get rid of _these_." I tug at his slacks and then straighten up, let go, to let him follow my orders.

Which he does, quickly and with only a little bit of desire-induced clumsiness. He shifts back, lying down with his head on the pillow, and I watch with a smirk as he unbuckles his belt and nearly flings it across the room before heading for the zipper and button of his slacks. I move onto the bed as he shoves them down over his hips and legs, bending to kick them off. One leg tangles at his foot, but a deliberate and vaguely irritated flick of his foot gets them off.

I can see the tent in his white boxers; decent size, but I knew that already. I reach forward and run my fingertips over the taut fabric, and his shoulders jerk as he gasps, head tilting back. But he doesn't reach for me, and I can see his struggle to stay still. It's been a long time since I was with someone as obedient as he's being, which fascinates me. I'm thoroughly enjoying it.

"These too," I say quietly, with a smirk.

Normally, when my allies are as obedient as this, I'm the one fucking them. But I've never seen Gannon play that role, and there's a _large_ difference between obedient for the sake of submission, and obeying my commands because he knows exactly how dangerous I am. It's all the latter, and I've got no doubt when his caution eases a bit, or we settle into the real fucking, he'll be dominant enough that I won't have the urge to roll him over and fuck him instead. I have issues letting anyone fuck me that doesn't take advantage of the gift; it just makes me want to show them how it _should_ be done.

Usually, those people don't get second chances.

I draw my hand away to give him the space to shove the boxers down, which he does with much less care than his pants, and out of the corner of my eye I can see him flick them almost all the way across the room with a kick of one foot. I brace my right hand on his shoulder, and hold my weight there for a moment as I swing my left leg over his waist and settle myself firmly across his hips. I can feel the hard press of him poking and then sliding as I settle down on top of him, and it's a _great_ feeling.

With Jason injured, and our family rallying around the disaster of his takedown at Doomsday's hands, it's been awhile since I let anyone fuck me. Longer since I took any more from sex than stripping my partner down and freeing just enough of myself to give them the ride of their life without being vulnerable. Jason's been... _busy_.

His eyes slide closed as his neck arches, baring his throat and making me push away the urge to sink my teeth into it. His hands curl to fists in the bed on either side of my legs, and his hips twitch upwards and then still.

He forces his eyes open, looks up at me, and breathlessly asks, "Can I touch you?"

Oh, he's so _good_.

I press my legs inwards, pushing down on top of him, and give a sharp smirk. "Say 'please,' " I prompt, enjoying it probably more than I should.

His shoulders draw up a little bit, in restraint. " _Nightingale_ ," he says, just this side of pleading, "may I touch you? _Please?_ "

My breath catches — no one I've slept with has _pleaded_ with me in years and _years_ , not since Jason died — and I arch a little bit and grind down into him as more than just a reward, because I can't _help_ it. " _Yes_."

I give permission, and his hands unclench and rise, touching my thighs and sweeping up. It's an exploration more than a grope, and I let my lips stay in the smirk and relax the arch of my back, enjoying the touch of his hands. I don't push away the desire burning sharp in my lower stomach, but I do force myself to control it. New experiences or not, I have had more than enough practice to control myself. He isn't Jason, he doesn't know every inch of my skin or exactly how to drive me beyond the edge of any kind of return, and with anyone but my adopted brother I’ve _never_ had a problem showing anything more than exactly what I want to.

"Not what I expected," he comments, his tone strained and dripping with want, with _desire_. It's almost enough to make me shudder, but I pull the reaction back and give a soft laugh instead, pushing into his hands.

"The scars or the muscle?" I ask. Most people don't think I'm built this well underneath my suit. They see me as tall and lean because that's what my suit emphasizes, and don't stop to think about the kind of musculature I'd have to have to pull off even half of what I can do. On the other hand, the people who do see me without my suit usually don't consider that I don't have any kind of enhanced healing factor, and I scar just like any other human.

"Both," he answers, after a second’s pause. I can feel his fingers tracing the familiar lines of old scars, some more sensitive and some few where the skin is mostly numb from the nerve damage that caused them. I let him until his right hand slides low enough to brush the start of the two inch horizontal line at my left side, starting about an inch to the side of my navel, and then I snap my left hand up and grab his wrist.

"Not that one," I order, sharply. My grip isn't painful, he doesn't know the story and he doesn't deserve being hurt for it, but I still wait for his nod before I let him go again. He's curious, but when his mouth starts to open I shake my head. "Not a story I'm interested in telling; move on, Gannon."

He doesn't need to know that's the only scar I've ever regretted, and that it's from the drive of Jason's knife. I should have read the warnings in his eyes, his stance, the very fact that he was fighting me and not embracing me, but I wanted him back so _badly_ that I blinded myself to all of it. I got gutted for that, left to bleed out in an alley. Sometimes Jason looks at it and I can see the pain in his eyes, but he's never brought it up, and I haven't either. He wasn't sane, and I made a stupid mistake. There's blame on both sides.

"Alright," he agrees, and lowers his hand to stroke my thigh instead, press at the edges of my briefs.

His interest averted, I let myself ease again. He looks completely entranced by the feeling of my skin underneath his hands, and I don't look back over my shoulder but I can feel the shift of muscle underneath me as he draws his legs up to brace both feet flat against the bed. I'm careful about how hard I squeeze my thighs in against his sides, and I must nail the balance because he shudders but doesn't give any kind of expression of pain. Most people don't appreciate me pushing hard enough to bruise them, and with how much strength I have in my legs that's not hard to do.

Gannon swallows, and then his gaze drags up to my face. "How passive do you want me?" he asks, right hand resting on my thigh, the left on my waist. "I can just do what you tell me to, but that's not—"

"Normal for you?" I finish, with a smirk, and let my left hand stroke up his arm, my right flex where it's braced against his shoulder. "I know." There's surprise in his eyes, and I tilt my head and push off his shoulder, straightening up. "How about a middle ground? Do what you want, but _if_ I give an order—"

It's his turn to finish my sentence, with an instant, "I'll follow it."

I watch him for a second, then let my mouth fall to a small twist at one side as I dip my head in agreement. "Sound good, Officer?"

His left hand draws away from my waist, bracing against the bed and levering himself up towards me. The other hand slides back around my thigh to loop around me and run his hand up my spine, and I stay still to watch and see where he's taking this. When he's straight, pressed close up against me, he lets the braced hand rise and stroke up my leg, fingers strong when they curl around my hip, but not enough to bruise or hurt.

"Sounds _more_ than good," he answers, pulling me in and leaning down, sealing his mouth over mine. It seems like permission is all he needed, because his tongue doesn't wait for my cue to coax my mouth open, and it's only a few moments before his hand slides back from my hip to grip my ass.

I smirk into the kiss, rolling my hips down against his and reaching forward. I slide one hand around his shoulders, linking my fingers into the hair at the base of his skull, and grip his upper left arm with the other. For now, I'll hold off on taking my nails to his back. Plenty of time for that later, and I don't want to leave him _too_ scratched up. After all, we agreed to no blood. I probably won't push that line, it's a decent limit. Besides, I don't _usually_ make people bleed, much.

He tastes like coffee, pretty overpoweringly, but that's not a bad flavor. It's pretty standard among the criminal community, and I might not be the most devoted of its followers but I am far from abstinent. It's familiar.

He pulls me down against him, pushing his hips up into me, and I can feel the hitch in his chest as he moans into my mouth. I stroke up his arm, tighten my grip in his hair so I can hold him still to press a little harder into him. It's been too long since I've felt someone else's skin against mine, and I hadn't realized how much I missed it, how much I _wanted_ it, until it was right in front of my face.

I've been busy managing Jason's section of Gotham and his mercenary contacts, making sure no one knows how badly he was injured or how firmly out of play he is right now. That's on top of running Bludhaven, my occasional patrol in Gotham to remind them I exist, and the work I do running the secondary Crime Syndicate team. I haven't had the time to indulge in any physical pleasure apart from my own hand, and even if I'd had the time I wasn't really in the mood. Not while I was trying to sort out my own desire to murder Arsenal.

Now, I think this is exactly what I need. To lose myself in someone else's skin, in the pleasure, and distract myself from all of the complicated, messy emotions digging in my chest. It doesn't have to last, but I'd really like to forget all of it for tonight. Just tonight.

I can feel his muscle twist, brace and push, and after a brief flash of mild surprise I let him do what he's intending to. He rolls both of us over, hand bracing against my back as he lowers me to the sheets. I keep my legs up, pressing against his hips and pulling him down to press into me. He does pause a moment, like he's waiting for any sign of rejection from me, before layering himself down against my chest, claiming my mouth again. I give another sound of approval, flexing the hand in his hair and dragging him closer.

Both of his hands stroke down my sides, fingers finding the edge of my briefs, and there's another of those momentary pauses before he starts to pull the fabric down my hips. _Just_ to show off, instead of lowering my legs to let him pull the briefs off I raise them higher, straightening them out along the line of my torso all the way to my shoulders. It's not the edges of my flexibility, but it's far past what most people are capable of. He doesn't realize exactly how I've moved for a moment, until the briefs get down to the curve of my thighs and he pauses to stroke one hand up my leg, probably to pull it down. Then he makes the most _delicious_ choked noise, and his hips grind forward into the back of my ass.

I laugh into his mouth, and then he's pulling back with slightly disbelieving eyes and staring down at my legs. I pull them together, between our chests, and let go of his left arm to loosely grip my calves, keeping my legs to the side of my head. It's not really a stretch, but judging by the look in his eyes, and the stroke of his hand up my left leg — like he has to touch it to make sure he's not hallucinating — it's still more than impressive to him.

"You can just _do_ that?" he asks, breathlessly.

"You've seen me fight, haven't you?" I ask, with a smirk. "Flexibility is my _specialty_." I slide my hand enough to the side to get my left leg out and raise it to hook my calf around the back of his neck. I pull him down into a kiss that he meets with passion and _need_ , the feelings driving his tongue and the cause of the probably accidental graze of his teeth. I enjoy it, almost as much as the hard press of his cock against my ass.

I pull him back eventually, when he's breathing hard and his hand is tight just below my knee, his hips pressing forward into me what's definitely subconsciously. But only enough that I can unhook my leg and say, "Now how about you take those off of me so we can get to the _real_ fun?"

He almost jerks to obey, and I press my legs back together so he can drag the briefs up them without any struggle. He actually has the decency to turn, once he's slipped them off my feet, and toss them across the room to the pile of my suit and gloves. Most of the people I sleep with don't care enough to make sure that when we're done, I don't have to hunt down exactly where the pieces of my suit ended up.

It's something else to add to my mental list of how much he's pleasing me, to see how big of a reward he might earn. If I feel like it.

I part my legs, wrapping them around the back of his thighs and pulling him down with some of my strength. Not that I need to force him to do any of it. Somehow, I don't think he minds me pulling him up against my naked skin. He _definitely_ doesn't mind when I stroke my free hand down his chest and find the hard press of his cock, winding my fingers around it. He groans and lets his weight lean down into me, head dropping down to rest against my shoulder.

My breath catches when his mouth closes over a spot just above the end of my collarbone, and I roll my shoulder up into the press of his teeth and the wet heat of his tongue. He takes the gentler route of marking. Instead of the sink of teeth into skin until it bruises, which is more obvious, and a more painful way, he sucks the top layer of skin between his teeth and rolls it. There's a hint of pain, but not nearly enough to make me care, and it's all but erased by the graze of teeth and the small, soothing, press of lips after he lets go.

I stroke him in non-verbal appreciation, and he pushes forward with his hips and gives another groan. It's not bad friction for me either, and I am _really_ done with any kind of foreplay. I came here to fuck, and this is nice, it's different, but it's not enough. I'm not in the mood to tease and be teased; I just want him in me and fucking me with the strength and endurance I've seen him take out on other people. I want _that_.

I let him go, and then drag his head back by my grip in his hair enough so he can meet my gaze. I give a sharp smirk, tighten the press of my legs around his waist for a moment. "I know you've got supplies in that table," I don't bother flicking my shoulder or hand towards the bedside table pressed against the upper right corner of the bed, he knows what I'm talking about. "Get them."

I do have to lower my legs and let go of his hair so he can obey, but that's a small price to pay. He moves enough that he can stretch out his arm and pull the drawer open, and I watch him pull out the plastic bottle of lube and a condom that he tears off the end of a strip of them. I slide my legs open, inviting, and he presses his way in between them. He definitely looks more at ease now, back in familiar waters, and he hooks his free hand underneath my right knee and draws it up over his shoulder. It brings my hip up off the bed, gives him a better angle to reach the important parts.

I don't offer guidance or complaint as he pops open the bottle and slicks his fingers, his gaze on his task and briefly not on me. The way he manages to close the bottle, and set it and the condom aside with his other hand, without getting lube on the sheets or the bottle itself, speaks to a fair amount of experience at it. It's not an easy thing to be neat about.

His fingers are thick and long, part of his larger hands, and I relax to let one inside me without resistance. Normally I don't let the people I sleep with prepare me. Too many don't know how, or rush it, and it's a more vulnerable act to let someone else work me open than it is to pin them down and make them watch me do it to myself. I don't have any interest in being hurt, or in suffering the clumsy prods of someone who doesn't know how to finger properly. I don't have the patience.

I've seen enough of Gannon's affairs with the men he picks up to know that he knows what he's doing — and is actually good at it, if the reactions I've seen are anything to go by — and he's not dangerous enough that I need to stay on my guard with him. I can let him have the slightly better position between us; he doesn't have the training or the metahuman advantages to actually hurt me before I can stop him. Besides, he's honorable enough. I'm almost completely certain that he's not going to stop in the middle of fingering me to try and knock me unconscious. Even if he did, I'd just kill him and be done with it.

Though I might use his shower and at least jack off afterwards; it would be _extremely_ frustrating to be denied like that. I might kill him slowly just for daring.

I give a low, pleased sound, arching my back a little bit just because I can. It's automatic to urge him on by reaching up and wrapping my hand around the back of his neck, bringing my left leg in to press against his thigh. His free hand slides down the outside of the leg draped over his shoulder, and then he turns into it. The drags of his teeth aren't enough to mark, but they feel good, and I let a soft moan pull its way out of my throat. I can feel him tense a bit at the sound.

He keeps me distracted with the press of his mouth and the stroke of his free hand long enough that the second finger he pushes inside me is barely even a discomfort. With two, he has the freedom to explore a bit more, experiment, and before too long he finds my prostate. I gasp at the accidental touch, and then arch when his fingers return to push deliberately against it. I'm not exceedingly sensitive to it — I _do_ need manual stimulation to get off, as much as some morons might think their cock is a magic staff to hit the magical prostate button — but it feels _good_ , and it's always a wonderful edge to a good fuck, or my own hand.

He rumbles out a groan, leaning down over me. He tries to let my leg fall to the side, off his shoulder, but I tighten and keep it there through him bending down. The press of his mouth to mine is passionate, his tongue matching the stroke and twist of his fingers — nice touch — and I rake my hand up through his hair and curl the other in the sheets. Experience makes me expect a third finger to come with the kiss, but it doesn't.

I give a soft laugh that's more breathless than I expect it to be, pushing into the press of his fingers and arching up against him. He breaks the kiss, pulling back just a touch, and I take the brief space between us to tell him, "I'm not fragile, Gannon."

He stares at me, obviously confused, but it doesn't stop the movement of his hand. "Yeah, I got that," he says slowly, sarcastically. He _must_ be easing into this.

"So you don't have to be gentle," I expand, squeezing both my legs into him. "I can take whatever you can dish out."

His eyes narrow just a little bit, and I _almost_ snarl at him when his hand pauses, fingers stilling inside of me. "Do you _like_ pain?" he asks, and I roll my eyes on automatic before giving him the audial cue of snorting.

"Not more than a touch here or there, no."

"Are you _telling_ me to go faster?" is what he follows that up with, and I pause.

I have to consider him for a long few moments, try and read the sincerity in his expression and voice, try and figure out where he's going with this. Then I answer, "No."

His hand restarts its movements, the thrusts of his fingers slower but deeper, more pinpoint accurate to rub against my prostate. "Then you said I could do what I wanted. Tell me otherwise or enjoy the sensation, Nightingale."

I... Huh. I don't think I've had anyone turn my own words on me like that in quite awhile. It's kind of refreshing.

"Fair enough," I concede after a few drawn out moments, with a smirk and a brief dig of my nails into his scalp. Most of that dig is the rising swell of pleasure though, and not a reinforcement of my words. "Give me something to enjoy then, _Officer_."

He takes it as the challenge it is, fingers picking up in pace as he leans back down to crush our mouths together. Not, _exactly_ , gentle by a civilian's standards, I guess, but I haven't had sex that didn't leave me with bruises in... a long time. Pain isn't a concern to me, though the only person I let actually _hurt_ me is Jason. He knows how much I can enjoy, and when I'll enjoy it. He knows the difference between pain without the buffer of pleasure, and the kind of pain that will seize onto the crest of adrenaline and endorphins and enhance it. Anyone else is allowed, _maybe_ , a few marks, or a grip on my hips or thighs that's a little too tight.

I leave them marked, and sometimes bloody, for the privilege, so I don't count it as something I'm not willing to tolerate.

I don't _want_ to think about Jason tonight.

I twist into the push of my cop's fingers, meeting his kiss just as passionately as he's giving it and releasing the sheets to bring my free hand up. I stroke it down his side, to his hip, and then slide it up onto his back. His first _real_ mark of the night comes from the drag of my hand up his spine, nails raking to vent my pleasure as well as my excess frustration and _feelings_. It's not his fault, but he's a convenient target and if I try I can almost imagine him as Jason. Not that I want to hurt _Jason_ , but Gannon's too broad and tall to substitute as Arsenal.

" _More_ ," I spit into the air between us, as he jerks and gasps into my mouth at the rake of my nails.

He obeys, the third finger sliding in beside the others, and I roll my hips up and give a small groan, arching my head back. His mouth falls to my throat, low enough and close enough to my shoulder that it doesn't raise any alarms, and it's some small, strange part of me that takes control and strokes my hand back down the length of his spine, across the path of my scratch. As if it's a comfort or an apology for hurting him when I know he doesn't like pain. Not that I'd ever apologize; he knew what he was getting into when he agreed to sleep with me.

I keep my touch softer anyway, arching up into him and pressing my mouth down along his neck. I keep my teeth safely contained until I’m low on his shoulder, far past where anything will show in his normal uniform, and then I start dragging marks to the surface of his skin. His free hand contracts on my thigh, and his mouth leaves my skin for a moment so he can shove out a breath that’s a tightly restrained groan. I roll my hips up into him — feeling the hard press of him against me and the friction is _good_ — and he tenses for a moment, muscle standing out underneath the hand I have on his back.

Part of me wants to demand that he cut this short and just get down to the actual fucking, but I hold my tongue. I want to know how long he’ll push this — it’s a long way from being bad, I can be patient for a while longer — and I want to know what he’ll do when he wants more. I told him he could do what he wanted, but it _would_ win him points to ask first. Gannon has been _very_ good about asking and being respectful. I am _seriously_ considering rewarding him some time later, if not with my mouth then at least somehow. Most people don’t please me as much as he has, and we haven’t even gotten to the most important parts of this yet. He’s still got plenty of time to raise my estimate of him even higher.

I tighten my grip in his hair, arching my throat back again as he presses down into me, grinding us together. I think the moan I let out shocks him for a second, because there’s a sudden sharp sting of teeth against the skin he’s currently got in his mouth before he immediately pulls away. Not enough to make me bleed, I can tell by the feeling.

His hand smoothes down the outside of my thigh, and I can feel him give a very faint shudder. I flick my eyes open to watch as he pulls back a little bit, mouth pressing soft kisses up the side of my throat to my jaw. He claims my lips for just a moment, and then draws a little further away, breath coming in sharp bursts against my skin. He looks a step away from snapping and doing _something_ , and I loosen my grip in his hair so I can lightly rake my nails across his scalp. It gets me a thicker shudder and a moment where his eyes flutter closed, but the movement of his hand stays steady, rhythmic.

“Nightingale,” he starts, prying his eyes back open to look at me. His voice is low, rough, obviously restrained. “Can I take you, please?”

“I thought you knew that _I_ take people, not the other way around?” The response is out of my mouth before I think about it, and there’s a sharp flash of surprise on his face, his hand stilling out of shock.

Then his mouth curls in half a smile and he gives a short, breathless laugh. “Are you _really_ going to criticize my wording right now?” He doesn’t give me a real chance to respond, leaning down and kissing me hard but only for a few moments. Then he pulls back just enough to ask, “May I fuck you? Please?”

I let my mouth twist in a smirk, and press both my legs in for just a second. “Better. Go ahead.”

The sensation of his fingers slipping out of me drives a quiet groan from my chest, but I let him move my leg down off his shoulder so that he can reach sideways for the bottle of lube and the condom. I watch for a moment as he tears it open, retrieving the roll of plastic and rolling it down over himself. His head arches back for a moment, and his fingers linger for that same pause, before he reaches for the bottle of lube. Before he can click it open I push up, using my grip on his hair and his lower back, along with a twist and shove of my legs, to neatly flip us. He looks startled to suddenly be on his back, and I widen my smirk a bit.

I’m kneeling over his hips, raised enough to not be in the way, and I tilt my head down towards his hands. “Finish that,” I order. After the surprise fades he rushes to obey, fingers quick but practiced as he slicks some of the lube along the outside of the condom. He sets the bottle aside, and I reach down and curl my fingers around him in place of his. He watches, seemingly entranced, as I line things up and sink down onto him.

_That_ drives a cry from his throat, his back arching up off the bed and his hands curling into the sheets to either side of my legs. I bite back my noise, but I do allow myself to tilt my head back and let out a soft sigh, settling down onto his hips. He’s thick, solid, long enough to feel _good_ , and it’s been _too long_ since I let myself indulge in a good fuck like this. I’ve been carrying so much stress around with me, and I can already feel it easing off of my shoulders, loosening the tension in my back as I relax into the familiarity of sex.

This is something I’m good at, this is something that lets me disengage my mind and just _feel_ , just _enjoy_. There are other ways, but this is the easiest way I’ve found to relax and shed the extra stress out of my muscles. Running, falling, _flying_ , all help me deal with pain, loss, and anger, but _this_ … A good fuck does the job in a quarter of the time, and if other people don’t know that’s all I want from them — the same as they only want me for what I look like — that’s their problem. I can handle the rejections in exchange for the efficiency, and I will _never_ let anyone else know that their words still sting.

Being the complete focus of someone’s attention, even if that attention only goes as deep as my skin, is the best way I’ve ever found to make myself feel better.

Gannon’s hands are shaky when they touch my thighs, stroking upwards to my hips. “ _God_ , Nightingale.”

I lean down, bracing my right hand against his shoulder and layering myself down over him. I let him lean up, joining our mouths in a clash of lips and tongue that’s too messy to be skilled. I don’t mind that so much, not right now. His hands flex in their grip, and his hips press up into me as he gives a strained moan between our mouths. I roll my hips in reward, drawing shallowly up and off of him before slipping back down, and he gasps.

“Enjoy the ride,” I murmur, against his mouth, before I pull back. I _can_ do my work pressed down against him, but I enjoy being appreciated, and nothing gives a better show than riding someone while straightened up. It’s a better angle, too.

I can see him swallow, and I push off of his shoulder. It’s harder to lift myself without the brace of my hand, but it’s well within what I’m capable of, and it leaves my hands free to put on a show. I slide my hands up my own chest as I set up a rhythm, a little above what I’d call slow, and high enough to get nearly a full slide every time. His hands tighten on my hips, and I let my mouth curl in a smirk at the expression on his face. Stunned lust, with a side of disbelieving.

I slide both my hands high enough to curl in my own hair, arching my back and tensing up just enough to make my muscle play beneath my skin. I can hear him choke on air, and I let a pleased hum leave my throat, drawing my lips into my mouth for a moment to moisten them. I angle myself just right for my own pleasure, closing my eyes and just enjoying the slide of him inside of me and the press of his fingers over my hips. Every flex of his hands, every rise of his hips to meet my downwards push, every noise that tears itself from his chest, is a drop added to the lake of desire and satisfaction in my chest. The lake that’s very slowly _drowning_ every inch of stress and pain in me.

One of his hands loosens, stroking up my side, and I flick my eyes open in time to watch him curl his torso up enough that he can raise that hand all the way to the back of my neck. He pulls me down — I let him — and I lower my hands to brace against his shoulders and shove him flat against the bed as he draws my mouth to his. I can feel the fast pace of his breath, the rise of his chest against mine as his tongue drives its way into my mouth. The rhythm is a little off from my rise and fall, but not enough for either of us to care, and his hand is hard against the back of my neck, fingers flexing as he holds me in against him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps into my mouth, “Nightingale. _God_ , you don’t even need me to tell you how _gorgeous_ you are.”

My mouth curls in a smirk, and I flex my fingers against his shoulders. “You let me go,” I say between the hard presses of his mouth, “and I can go back to putting on the show.”

I can feel his breath catch, feel the off-beat hesitation of his hips, and then he all but _whimpers_ into my mouth. “No — _jesus_ , Nightingale — I want to _feel_ you, not just _watch_.”

It’s _my_ turn to stutter in my rhythm, my hands flexing _hard_ on his shoulders — he’s going to have bruises — and my back bowing into an arch to press harder in against him. I— That’s— _Fuck_ , that’s more than anyone’s admitted wanting me in _years_. Wanting _me_ , not just the pride from having fucked me instead of someone else, and wanting to _feel_ me, not just grope and thrust.

A harsh sound of desire leaves my throat, and Gannon shudders and pulls me back by my neck just enough to speak. “ _Nightingale_ , let me make you feel even _half_ as good as I do. Tell me what you want, _please_.”

I give a breathless laugh — there’s something in me that’s open and raw, vulnerable, and I don’t know how to close it off again, I _can’t_ — and then squeeze my eyes shut for a second. “ _Fuck_ me,” I almost plead, _shoving_ myself down on him and trying not to bruise his shoulders any more than I already have. “Just _fuck_ me.”

His hands clench on my skin, and then he’s rising against me and turning, shifting. My back hits the sheets, his mouth finds a spot low on my throat to dig into, and he’s pressed between my legs, one hand holding my hips up at an angle so he can push into me. My neck arches back, and I wind my legs around his hips and slide my hands up around his chest, to grip him tight and drag him in against me. He’s not vicious, not powerful and painful like some of the people I’ve let fuck me, but he’s _strong_ , and each thrust is hard and deep. I drag him closer, further, digging my nails into his back just because of how _good_ it feels.

The hand on my neck lets go, and strokes its way down my chest to slip between us. I give a gasp when his hand wraps around me, confident and firm, and then a moan when he starts stroking in time with his thrusts. He shifts the angles, moving my hips to meet him, and his testing bears fruit at the same time as his hand gives _just_ the right kind of twist. I give a loud cry at the combined sensation, bucking up into him as I tighten my thighs around his hips and try to force him deeper, _harder_.

“God _damn_ ,” is what comes out of his mouth and against my throat, his tone awed and starting to transfer from ‘want’ to ‘ _need_.’ “You’re— _Fuck_ , Nightingale.”

“ _Harder_ ,” I demand, sliding my left hand up his back to clutch at his hair, clenching my jaw so I don’t sink my teeth into the side of his throat. That only lasts for about a second, before I turn my head and drag him up into a kiss. He moans into my mouth, and I rake my teeth across his bottom lip and nip at it, venting my urge to bite in safer ways. I hold him up against me, taking the pound of his hips and the twist of his hand, moving against him to meet it, _wanting_ it.

His hand lets go of my hip, sliding up to hook underneath my knee and drag my leg further up his waist, nearly all the way to his ribcage. It’s a slightly better angle, deeper, and a thick tremble slides up my spine and forces me away from the kiss so I can arch my throat and give a gasping cry. He curses against the skin of my throat, breathing hard, and I flex my hand in his hair and, as soon as I can, lean in to graze my teeth along the shell of his ear and breathe against it. It gets me a hard shove of a thrust and a bitten off moan, and I pull his head to the side so I can get at his neck.

I _don’t_ bite, no matter how much I want to, until I’ve pressed a trail of nipping kisses down the side of his throat. He cries out when I sink my teeth into the top of his left shoulder, jerking against me, and I don’t bite hard enough to break the skin but I know he’ll feel this for _days_. Every time his shirt shifts against his skin, every time he rolls his shoulder or flexes these muscles, he’ll _remember_.

I force my jaw to loosen before I bite any harder, muffling my noises against his flesh. _This_ is what I wanted. Skin against mine, slick with sweat, with the scent of sex in the air and the taste of another person on my tongue, between my _teeth_. Someone strong and steady enough to fuck me until I’m tired and the satisfaction is written deep into my muscles. Until I’m loose and relaxed, and all the stress I’ve worked up bleeds out of me like poison.

Gannon doesn’t push into my teeth like Jason would, but he doesn’t shrink away from them either. I reward him by letting go, pulling him back up into another kiss. I stroke along his back with my free hand, feel the desire to _claw_ where my fingers pass, and give a small, tight noise into the press of his lips and tongue. I curl that hand into a fist to remove the temptation, tightening both legs where they’re hooked around him. One at his hip, and the other high on his ribcage.

He’s _good_ , practiced, skilled, and it’s only the fact that I know Gannon fucks hard and _long_ that stops me from trying to actually prolong the experience. I’ll get more, I _know_ I will. This isn’t going to be one of the fucks where my partner comes too soon and I end up frustrated and having to deal with it on my own. Even if for some reason Gannon comes faster than any other rendezvous I’ve watched him have, I believe that he’d take any and all steps to make sure that I get off too. He’s an actually decent person like that. On the other hand, I make sure my partners get off because I want them receptive to a second time, _if_ I want it. I don’t burn bridges unless I don’t like something they did, and most people can beg their way back into my bed if they’re willing to let me run things and follow my orders _exactly_.

_Most_ of them.

I twist myself up against him — using the underside of my wrist to stroke his back because if I loosen my hand from the fist I’m going to make him _bleed_ with how much I want to claw into his skin — and moan into his mouth, trying not to let the rising swell of pleasure at the base of my spine become an increase in the strength of my grip. He’d be insane if he thought he was getting out of this without bruises, but I don’t have to let loose and actually _hurt_ him. I’m used to restraining myself.

“You—” he cuts off, still kissing me and breathing hard, a shudder that I can feel every inch of shaking him. “ _Nightingale_ ,” he says between our mouths, the hand stroking me twisting _just_ right again, “let me _feel_ you. Don’t hold back, don’t be anything but _you_.”

My eyes snap open, and I pull away from the kiss to study his face. It’s _hard_ to focus that well, but as his eyes slide open and meet mine — and all I can see in them is _desire_ — I flash a sharp smile and tell him, “You don’t know what you’re asking.” It’s a warning.

“Then _show_ me,” he presses, voice low and rough with want.

I arch in automatic reaction, _feel_ him groan at the clench around him, and _don’t_ smile. I _don’t_. “You didn’t want to bleed,” I remind him.

His rhythm is still steady, _hard_ , and he kisses me again before he gasps against my mouth, “I can take a little pain to feel you come apart for me. _God_ , Nightingale, you’re _already_ gorgeous. Let me see the rest of it, let me _feel_ it.”

My breath comes short and sharp as I stare at him, and then a laugh bursts out of my throat as I arch, twist, _writhe_ because it feels so _good_. “ _Gannon,_ ” I hiss, tilting my head back and letting my hand ease out.

He thrusts, brushes that bundle of nerves inside me, and my nails find purchase in his skin, my legs tightening as I do what he wants. I let myself go. I let the control slip away and let the feelings and the _lust_ take me apart. Let the rising wave of pleasure flow without me fighting it, let my back strain tight and my hand rake down his back. He shouts, shoves into me and tightens his fingers around the back of my knee. I have just enough left in me to tilt my mouth towards his shoulder instead of his neck, not quite biting but grazing my teeth, sucking at the skin, _tasting_ him. I moan, twist, buck, throw him a _little_ off balance but he recovers before I can think to fix it myself.

He’s hot and hard and this is _everything_ I needed. I needed every twist of his hand, every push of his hips, every slide of him inside me, and every breath against the skin of my shoulder. I needed to let go, to just fuck and _be_ fucked without expectation or a need to be on my guard and ready for a fight. I needed _this_.

I can feel my release sweeping over me, tightening my muscles and arching my back, forcing my head back as my hand curls and _claws_ down his back. I cry out, shaking and feeling each twist of his hand and hips as he moves with me, pushing me further and higher until the crest of the wave shatters. I can feel my release splatter between our stomachs, and my body holds the arch for a few moments. Then I slump down, easing into the bed and relaxing my grip in his hair and against his back, letting the thigh not held by him fall wide and open. I breathe hard, my eyes closed, and I can feel him pull himself to a stop. His hips press up against me, sheathed as deep as he can get, and his hand rests around my cock, holding but not moving. It’s nice.

My hands stroke and wander, idle movement because it’s _so_ hard for me to stay still. Movement is _always_ my natural state.

Gannon’s mouth presses down against my throat, small kisses that trail up and down my skin as he carefully releases my leg so I can lower it down to the bed. It’s good, it’s nice, it’s gentle in a way people so _rarely_ are with me. Most of the time I don’t even want it, but in the afterglow it’s nice to be allowed a minute to enjoy it and recover, instead of my partner just continuing to fuck me while I’m sensitive and the pleasure turns to a sort of pain. It feels _good_ to still have him in me, and when he eventually lets go of my cock that’s not so bad either. His hands stroke up my sides, and there’s a slight shakiness to them but I don’t comment.

He shifts, pauses and hisses out a breath. “Nightingale, I—”

I cut him off with a pleased hum, tightening my grip — both of my hands have ended up roughly over his shoulder blades — for a moment. “You don’t have to wait for me; go whenever you’re ready.”

“No, that’s not—” His voice is gravelly, the restraint in it _screams_ at me, but he’s still and steady between my legs. “Will you let me lay behind you and take you like that?” he asks, shaky but determined. “I want to let you _relax_. _Please_ , let me.”

I pull my head down, and he raises his to look at me. I consider the answer for a few moments — I almost _never_ let anyone at my back, not without a safeguard — but then give a slow nod. “Yes, I’ll let you.” My voice isn’t even either, but it’s low and soft instead of tight with tension like his is. There’s _sharp_ desire in his eyes, and he pulls carefully away from me.

My back arches a little bit as he pulls out of me, but I keep my grip from tightening and let him slip away. I turn before he can prompt me to, rolling onto my left side as I watch him, bringing my right leg up higher on the bed to nearly flatten my hips out. It’s an invitation, and he takes it. He’s just a little shaky when he lays down at my back, pressing up against me with his mouth at the back of my neck. I can’t see it, but I can feel the pressure as he lines himself up and then pushes back into me. I give a rumble of a moan at the feeling, curling my left hand into the sheets beneath me as he gets more or less comfortable.

It’s _kind_ , what he’s doing. Like this, there’s absolutely _no_ need for me to tense, or keep myself up or steady, or do absolutely anything but relax into the sheets and enjoy the leftover sensation. It’s easy, and it’s _nice_. It puts my pleasure above his, and that’s something that _no one_ I know even considers doing. Not like this, anyway.

His left arm pushes its way beneath me, circling around my chest to hold me as his right grips my hip. He starts to move, and it’s not the same hard rhythm as before. It’s soft, deep and slower, but I can feel his breath against the back of my neck and it’s still hard. I’m not doubting that he’s still aroused, that he’s still _enjoying_ himself, but it’s new to have someone else consider my pleasure, my ability to _enjoy_ an afterglow, to be more important than his own desire. I like it.

Oh, Gannon has earned himself a _reward_ of some kind. I just have to think about what it is. Or…

I raise my right hand, reaching back and stroking along the side of his face, back through his hair. I give another pleased sound, shifting a bit to push back into his thrusts, tilting my head back a bit. “You’ve been _very_ good,” I purr, smirking at the tension that I can feel take over his muscles for a moment. “I think you’ve earned a _reward_.”

He makes the most fascinating, strangled, _whimper_ into the back of my neck. I can feel his hips stutter in their rhythm, and then come back a little harder, a little faster.

“There’s no rush,” I say, arching back against him and clenching down just to hear the noise he makes, sort of like I just punched him in the solar plexus. “Think of something you want, and tell me. Make sure it’s _good_ , Gannon, or I’ll say ‘no’ and you’ll have to start all over.”

His fingers flex on my hip, stroke across my chest, and he makes another whimpering sound into the back of my neck before he gasps out, “ _Jesus_ , you want me to _think_ right now?”

A laugh breaks its way out of my throat before I can think about it, and I shake my head a little bit, closing my eyes. “Not this second. _Fuck_ me, Gannon, and tell me what you want whenever you decide it.” I turn my head as far as I can over my shoulder, but barely catching him out of the corner of my vision, and give a sharp, _dangerous_ smile. “You didn’t think this was just going to be a single round, did you?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he spits, hips _shoving_ hard as he registers my words. “ _Nightingale_.” He says my name like a plea, like he’s _begging_ — oh, _good_ thought; maybe I can make him do that later — and the smirk solidifies on my face as I scratch my nails across his scalp.

“Oh, I’m a _long_ ways from done with you, _Officer_. You should settle in for the ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done with this story! Yeah! I will see you guys tomorrow with whatever I decide to post! Oh, and I did Camp NaNoWriMo and wrote a whole bunch (100K) of some stories I think you guys will really enjoy. XD Wait and see!


End file.
